


"Dude"

by beetle



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 11:28:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/760832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the inception_kink prompt: "Yusuf is working his first job out of college as a "fact checker" for a semi-sleazy men's magazine; doomed to spend his days researching protein bars and celebrity bra sizes. Robert Fischer is his boss whom he has a million good reasons to hate. So why doesn't he?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not stealing, just appreciating.  
> Notes: An AU where the Inception team works at a men's magazine called "Dude."

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/_beetle_/pic/0003phqy/) [](http://pics.livejournal.com/_beetle_/pic/0003qppg/)

  
“Heyya, Fischer and Cobb are coming along, mate, so look busy.”  
  
Yusuf barely takes a moment to glance up at Eames, who’s leaning on the right partition of Yusuf’s cubicle like he’s been planted there. “I  _am_  busy.”  
  
“Then look busier. You know the editors and CEO types don’t believe we’re working hard unless we look harried and stressed out.” Eames sighs. “In other words, unless we look like Arthur.”  
  
Yusuf squints up at Eames. The man looks like sex on two legs, as always . . . like he should be in _Dude_  Magazine, not writing for it. And to hear him talk, one wouldn’t  _think_  the man has one of the most witty and widely read syndicated advice columns in the country. Of course, it’s a relationship advice column (read:  _sex advice column_. Sex is something Eames not only knows a lot about, but goes to great pains to keep current on), and is only beat out by Dan Savage for most widely read relationship column in the U.S.  
  
“You know, you should really let Arthur be. He’s harmless and he keeps to himself.” This is not the first time Yusuf's said this. And he gets the same variation on the usual Eamesian reply:  
  
“That’s exactly why I  _don’t_  let him be.”  
  
As if that makes any sort of sense.  
  
Snorting, Yusuf looks back at his screen. “You don’t let him be because you want him.”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes so extravagantly Yusuf can practically hear it. “Well,  _duh_ , as the saying goes. Have you  _seen_  him? Ye gods!” Eames bobs up on his toes to peer across the room at Arthur’s cubicle. Likely all he can see of the man is the top of his head. That’s all any of his colleagues get to see of Arthur, other than his serious, but admittedly attractive profile.  
  
“He never stops working. I swear, the man’s like the bloody Terminator.” Eames sighs like a forlorn teenage girl, and Yusuf smiles to himself.  
  
“In bed,” he adds, and Eames snorts out quiet laughter.  
  
“Well, one can hope. Anyway, I’m going to get back to it before the bosses arrive and find me socializing.” But Eames bobs up again to get another look at Arthur. “God, is it wrong that I want him to bareback me into next Tuesday?”  
  
“Ah-ah-ah . . . too much information,” Yusuf chastises gently. “Go look busy and let me get back to researching these damned protein bars.”  
  
“It shall be as my lord commands.” And with that, Eames is gone, leaving Yusuf to finish his digging on the newest innovation in energy booster from COBOL Health Products.  
  
“The  _ **ZAP!**_  bar, indeed,” he mutters to himself, and starts typing again. Once more, the office around him ceases to exist—at least until a throat clears itself from behind him.  
  
“Eames, I don’t want to hear anymore about Arthur or barebacking, thanks, but no thanks. I have work to—oh!” Yusuf starts when he looks up to see not his randy coworker, but his editor, Dom Cobb, and another man hovering just behind him who could, with Yusuf’s luck, only be the CEO of Fischer Publishing. “Um. Hi.”  
  
Cobb looks vaguely dyspeptic, as always, and squints at Yusuf as if Yusuf's gone more-than-slightly transparent. “Yusuf.” He shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks, steps to the left, and the man behind him steps forward, smiling.  
  
“Yusuf, this is our CEO, Robert Fischer. He’s here to get a feel for our daily operations. Mr. Fischer, this is Yusuf Muhammad, one of our fact checkers,” Cobb says, looking mildly uncomfortable. But Yusuf barely notices, transfixed as he is by Fischer, whose hand is held out for shaking. He’s still smiling like he’s never seen a cloudy day in his life.  
  
 _He probably hasn’t,_  Yusuf thinks inanely, staring into Fischer’s blue-blue eyes. Those eyes stare steadily right back.  
  
Cobb clears his throat, and Fischer’s smile turns wry. “I’m pleased to meet you Yusuf.”  
  
“What? Oh! Yes, pleased to meet you, as well, Mr. Fischer.” Yusuf quickly takes Fischer’s hand and pumps it five or six—or ten times. Fischer has a strong, dry grip that rather takes Yusuf by surprise. It’s not something he expects of a man of Fischer’s compact stature or high station.  
  
“Please, call me ‘Robert.’ Someone around here should, since I can’t get Dom, here, to.”  
  
“Old habits die hard, Mist— _Robert_. I’m so used to dealing with your father, may he rest in peace—“  
  
“Yeah, Maurice wasn’t really the first-name-basis kinda boss, was he?” Robert snorts, but his gaze has turned melancholy. For a moment, anyway. Then he’s looking at Yusuf again, and a smaller, but no less dazzling version of that previous smile graces his (gorgeous) mouth. “So, Yusuf. What facts are you checking, today?”  
  
“Uh—“ Yusuf turns back toward his screen hurriedly, having forgotten in the space of less than two minutes what he’s spent the last day and a half working on. “Ah! The new COBOL  _ **ZAP!**_ bars.”  
  
“Aaah.” Robert chuckles. “Here, lemme save you some effort: if it’s COBOL, it must be shit.”  
  
Yusuf bursts out laughing. “Well, I wouldn’t say the  _ **ZAP!**_  bars are  _shit_. . . .”  
  
“What  _would_  you say, then?”  
  
Pretending to think it over, Yusuf glances over his shoulder and sees that yep, that stunner of a smile is back out in force. “Shinola,” he says firmly, and Robert laughs heartily, showing off perfect bridgework.  
  
Cobb merely looks bemused, as if humor doesn't quite compute.  
  
Robert moves closer to Yusuf—close enough that Yusuf can smell expensive cologne and clean, warm skin—and leans down to look at the screen. “Ugh, the bars themselves may be crap, but the least they could do would be to make them in flavors that are remotely edible. ‘Lemon banana swirl’?”  
  
Swallowing reflexively and trying his very best not to be sniffing his boss (which he is . . . he  _so_ is), Yusuf shrugs haplessly. “Some focus group out there gave the flavors a green light. And COBOL is  _all_  about its focus groups.”  
  
“Don’t I know it?” Robert straightens up, his eyes flicking back to Yusuf, who’s quick to look away and busy himself with polishing his glasses. With his shirt-tail.  
  
“Well,” Cobb says, clapping Yusuf on the back. “Mist—Robert and I’ll let you get back to work. We have a few other departments to look into.”  
  
“Right-o, boss-man.” Yusuf winces. He’s never once, in his admittedly brief time at  _Dude_ , called Cobb  _boss-man_. He grins nervously up at his two bosses and wishes the Earth would open up and swallow him whole.  
  
Cobb looks a bit pained, but Robert merely looks . . . amused.  
  
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Yusuf,” he says, holding out his hand again. Yusuf takes it, and this time only pumps it three times. However, he doesn’t realizes that after the pumping stops he’s still holding on—until Robert frees his hand from Yusuf’s somewhat sweaty grip.  
  
“Ditto. It was a pleasure to meet me. I mean meet  _you_. Um, Robert.”  
  
That bright smile flashes out again, lighting up sky-blue eyes . . . then he’s letting Cobb lead him away while nattering the whole time about readership stats. Yusuf watches them walk away, definitely not staring at Robert's ass. . . .  
  
Before they disappear around a corner, Robert glances back at him and  _winks_ , as if he knows exactly where Yusuf's eyes had been a split-second before.  
  
 _Which he couldn't . . . right?_  Face burning, Yusuf gives a limp wave and turns back to his computer before his traitor eyes can get him into anymore trouble.  
  
Opening his favorite proxy server in a separate browser window, he pulls up his favorite search site. After a moment of hesitation—and much glancing around to make certain he’s unobserved—Yusuf types his parameters into the search field:  
  
 **Robert Fischer**.


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary.

“So, do you always work through the lunch hour?”  
  
Yusuf nearly spits out his last mouthful of  _Whatchamacallit_  at the sound of Fischer’s voice. Then he nearly chokes on the same mouthful, trying to hastily swallow it.  
  
“Whoa, are you okay?” Fischer starts patting Yusuf’s back firmly as Yusuf coughs and splutters. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”  
  
“’S’okay—I’m fine!” Yusuf coughs out, glancing over at Fischer through streaming eyes. He yanks off his glasses and swipes at them impatiently, still trying to discreetly hork nougat out of his right lung. “How—may I—help you?”  
  
Fischer stops patting Robert’s back and leans against the cubicle partition the way Eames had. Watches Yusuf like he’s Must-See-TV. “Well . . . I wanted to pick your brain about the inner workings of  _Dude_  magazine.”  
  
Blinking away more tears, Yusuf clears his throat with one Herculean cough, blushing when Fischer smiles a tiny, sardonic smile. “Of course—but might I ask why  _my_  brain? I’ve only worked here for a few months, and at any rate, Cobb knows this place better than I ever will.”  
  
“Which is why I’d like a sort of . . . outsider’s opinion.” Robert shrugs. “Dom and his department heads are too close to this place—can’t see the forest for the trees, so to speak.” Robert’s smile turns amused, and invites Yusuf to share in the amusement. “I’m willing to bet you have the right mix of experience and newness to provide some unique and valuable insight.”  
  
Flummoxed, Yusuf looks back at his screen. For some reason, he can’t read a single word in front of him. “Well, I don’t know about  _that_ , but—you’re the boss. My brain is yours to pick.”  
  
“Excellent,” Robert says warmly. And his hand settles lightly on Yusuf’s shoulder. “So, how’s the fact-checking going on the  _ **ZAP!**_  bars?”  
  
Yusuf nearly chokes again, certainly not wanting to admit he’d spent the second half of the morning fact-checking Fischer, himself, and that’s why he’s working through his lunch hour, now. “Oh, it goes—vile flavors, fatty fillers, over-priced—the usual, for COBOL.”  
  
“Why am I not surprised?” Robert shakes his head, laughing. And that laughter makes his eyes seem to glow. “One of these days, I’ll find out the secret of their success. It certainly isn’t a superlative product or customer satisfaction.”  
  
“I’m thinking it’s their ties to the South African mob,” Yusuf says, only half-seriously, but Robert’s eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“You’re kidding.”  
  
“Not really, no.” Yusuf puts his glasses back on and Robert’s face comes into startling focus. Once more, it hits Yusuf like a hammer made of handsome, and he finds himself at a loss for something intelligent to say. “I mean, there’ve been rumors, and a few official allegations, but nothing any court could make stick. And nothing more recent than ten years ago. COBOL covers their tracks well.”  
  
Robert whistles, giving Yusuf an impressed once-over. “Wow. You really take your job seriously.”  
  
Yusuf blushes again. “Well, yes. I wouldn’t want  _Dude_  to be compromised because I missed something important.”  
  
“Yusuf, you do realize who you’re fact-checking for, right?” Robert rolls his eyes. “In some circles, this magazine is viewed as ten steps below  _Men’s Health Magaazine_  and one bare step up from  _Hustler_. If  _Dude_  gets a few facts wrong, no one’s gonna care. Or even notice.”  
  
Stung, Yusuf sits stiffly back in his chair, regarding Robert coolly. “Perhaps. But I take pride in my work, regardless of whether or not my employer values it or me,” he says tersely, before he can stop himself. Not that he’s sure he would have.  
  
Robert looks momentarily surprised. Then rather chagrined. “No, right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—belittle you or what you do here. And you  _are_  valued by Fischer-Morrow Publishing, believe me. Dom had nothing but praise for you and how thorough you are.” The man’s backtracking skills are formidable. But not enough to comfort Yusuf, who’s suddenly remembering the rash of firings and lay-offs that’ve followed in the wake of Maurice Fischer’s death, and the closure of several imprints of Fischer-Morrow Publications.  
  
The fact is, that if Robert Fischer doesn’t see the point in an employee, or an employee’s job, he’s prone to firing them. And prone to dissolving whole companies, if he doesn’t see an immediate reason to keep them.  
  
If Robert considers  _Dude_  unimportant . . . that’s the next best thing to  _expendable_.  
  
Like a dash of cold water, Yusuf suddenly understands that he really can’t afford to take any kind of high tone with this man. None of the employees at  _Dude_  can, really. More than their jobs are on the line, if Fischer doesn’t like what he sees here. It could be the entire magazine. . . .  
  
And as low-brow as  _Dude_  can be—which is very—and as relatively recent as his tenure is, Yusuf genuinely likes his job. He likes the people he works with even more. The thought that all of that could come to a sudden and abrupt end sometime soon is . . . dismaying.  
  
“—offended you too terribly, I’d like to take you out to lunch,” Robert is saying lowly, smiling a charmingly apologetic smile. Yusuf tells himself he isn’t really moved by it, that he’s only pretending for the sake of his job. “What do you say to  _Grimauldi’s_? My treat?”  
  
Yusuf’s brain plays a bit of catch-up, and he blinks, confused and flustered. “Uh— _Grimauldi’s_?”  
  
Robert shrugs affably. “Or we could go to  _Stefano’s_ , if you prefer, but their menu is kind of hit or miss, I find. But it’s up to you.”  
  
“Wait—what?”  
  
“Well, I’d still like to pick your brain about  _Dude_ ,” Robert says after a barely noticeable beat. Then that charming smile warms to something a little more . . .  _real_. “Also consider it my way of apologizing for sticking my foot in my mouth, just now.”  
  
Still confused and flustered, Yusuf looks back at his screen. It goes into SLEEP mode as he watches. He swallows his pride and the weird tickle of anticipation in his throat. He reminds himself of all that may hinge on making sure Robert Fischer’s experience at  _Dude_  is a good one. “You don’t have to apologize to me, I’m just a fact-checker. I’m what’s viewed in certain circles as one bare step above the mailroom,” Yusuf can’t help adding as he pokes at his mouse until the screen flickers back to life. “Hardly Fischer-Morrow Publications’ MVP, Mr. Fischer.”  
  
That hand settles on his shoulder once more, this time with no signs of going anywhere. “Well, that’s more a strike in Fischer-Morrow’s column, than in yours, Yusuf. And if I made you feel otherwise . . . I’m truly sorry.”  
  
Unable to repress the shiver that works its way through him—and certain Robert notices it—Yusuf smiles widely up at Robert and pretends to be mollified . . . at least he  _thinks_  he’s pretending. “No worries.”  
  
Robert snorts, rolling those pretty, lambent eyes. “You don’t have to fake me out because I’m the boss, you know. I said a dickish thing, and you were right to call me on it. Believe me, you’re not the first and you won’t be the last.”  
  
Yusuf blushes, caught out, so he decides to  _brazen_  it out. “So you make a habit of being a dick, then?”  
  
“Some have even theorized that it’s my default mode, being a dick.” Another affable shrug. Yusuf wants to roll his eyes, but as the last of his self-righteous indignation drains from him, he finds himself almost smiling as Robert adds: “But I’m working on changing that.”  
  
“Work harder.” It slips out without any say-so from Yusuf, who silently swears and bites his lip before anything else comes tumbling out. But Robert’s eyes widen and he bursts out laughing, long and loud, causing heads to turn their way. Yusuf ducks his head and buries his face in his hands. “Did I say that out loud?”  
  
Robert is still laughing, his hand losing and regaining contact with Yusuf’s shoulder intermittently. “Yeah, you said it out loud, alright. Heh. I think I just got  _served_.”  
  
But he doesn’t sound at all put out about it. In fact . . . Yusuf risks a glance up at him. Robert’s wiping at his eyes, still flashing that expensive bridgework like there’s no tomorrow.  
  
Odd.  
  
“Wow. Are you always this blunt, Yusuf?”  
  
“Practically never,” Yusuf says immediately, and Robert snorts a little, his eyes sparkling merrily.  
  
“Good, because I think my ego’s been bruised enough for one day.” Another snort, and Robert squeezes Yusuf’s shoulder companionably. “What say we head out around. . . ?” He checks his watch (which looks like it costs more than Yusuf’s likely to make all year) “One?”  
  
“’Head out’?”  
  
“To lunch.”  
  
Yusuf looks away, blushing again and chastising himself. It’s not as if the man’s asking him out on a date. It’s merely a lunch meeting so Fischer can get a feel for what goes on inside  _Dude_  . . . possibly before liquidating it or selling it off.  
  
Recalled to his previous realization, Yusuf practically blanches, but he looks Robert— _Fischer_ dead in the eyes. Forces himself not to be mesmerized by whatever he sees there, and tells himself:  _this is business_. “One sounds perfect.”  
  
Robert’s bright, pleased smile nearly undoes him, nonetheless.  
  


*

  
  
“So, what did Fischer talk to you about, earlier? I noticed he was very . . . shall we say ‘handsy’?”  
  
Yusuf shakes off, zips up, and flushes, genuinely annoyed with Eames’s nosiness. “Do you have nothing better to do than watch me and Robert talk?”  
  
As he walks to the sinks to wash his hands, he hears Eames zip and flush. “So, it’s ‘Robert,’ is it?” He joins Yusuf at the sinks, his reflection all a-smirk.  
  
“He asked me to call him Robert . . . what, he didn’t ask you?”  
  
Eames shakes his head no. “Didn’t have much to say to me, or anyone else, just nodded, listened, and smiled that bloody gorgeous smile. Which isn’t to say he wasn’t perfectly lovely to meet, but he wasn’t overly . . . chummy. Not like he seemed to be with you. And he certainly didn’t make second rounds of the rest of the floor. Only you.” One light-brown eyebrow shoots up as if asking Yusuf to deny that.  
  
When Yusuf doesn’t, Eames sighs.  
  
“Let me guess: he’s taking you out to lunch? Or is it dinner?”  
  
Startled, all Yusuf can do is blink at Eames. “Lunch. To pick my brain.” Off Eames’s rolled eyes, Yusuf hunches his shoulders defensively. “And how did you know?”  
  
Eames rolls his eyes again. “Yusuf, darling, if there’s anything I can read better than a man, I have yet to stumble across it. Even clear across the office, it was painfully obvious the man’s interested in you. More than he’s interested in anything else about this place, at any rate.”  
  
“That’s not true. The only thing Robert—Mr. Fischer is interested in is getting a feel for how things work at  _Dude_.”  
  
“That’s not the only thing he wants to get a feel for—and fuck you very much for making me stoop to such a plebian little single entendre to make my point.” Eames gives him a sudsy two-finger salute.  
  
Yusuf sighs and rinses his hands. “Eames, you’re wrong, he’s not—“  
  
“Darling, I wouldn’t dispute a fact  _you’d_  checked, so don’t doubt  _me_  when I tell you a man is interested in more than business when it comes to you.” Eames’s tone turns from playful and somewhat mocking to serious and almost stern. “It’s all well and good to be modest, Yusuf—it’s part of your charm. But there comes a point when modesty’s a detriment to the self. That point is now.”  
  
“Eames—“  
  
“No, listen to me, Yusuf.” Eames shakes his hands free of excess water and leads the way to the automatic hand drier, frowning. “The man has his sights set on  _you_. Understandably. I’d have tumbled you ages ago, if my heart didn’t already belong to dear Arthur.”  
  
“ _Eames_!” Yusuf chokes out, his face heating up unbearably under Eames’s frank regard. “That’s—that’s—“  
  
“True, every word of it,” Eames says matter-of-factly. Then he leans against the exit, ostensibly to block anyone else from coming in. Or Yusuf from going out. “You don’t seem to realize how attractive you are, and as I’ve said, that’s part of your charm. But with Fischer sniffing around you, you need to  _become_  very-sodding-aware of how desirable you are. Because  _he’s_  certainly aware of it. And he means to act on it— _not_  during your little business lunch, of course. He wouldn’t be so crass. But sooner, rather than later, he’ll be wining and dining you with an eye toward bedding you. And from the looks of you—“ Eames gives him a keen once-over. “From the looks of you, he will.”  
  
“That’s—you’re—“ Yusuf stammers. Then he crosses his wet arms over his chest. “Utterly ridiculous!”  
  
“Oh, am I?” Eames’s smile is wistful and sad. “Well, then, forget I said anything.” He levers himself away from the door. “But do remember that he’s got a reputation for being the love-em-and-leave-em sort, yeah?”  
  
Yusuf huffs, but he knows more about Robert Fischer than anyone else in the man’s employ, with the exception of Peter Browning. However the last thing Yusuf intends to admit to is having researched the man. Mostly because Eames, perceptive Eames, is absolutely right. “Look, Eames—“  
  
“And don’t bother telling me this is none of my business. I already know that,” Eames says quickly, holding up his hands as if to say  _no harm, no foul_. “But you’re a friend, and I feel obliged to apprise you of the . . . situation I suspect you’ll shortly find yourself in. The man gets around more than a tray of hors d’oeuvres at a cocktail party. He’s been known to fuck, then fuck over his paramours in a rather distasteful fashion.”  
  
Still, Yusuf can’t think of anything to say. He’s having a hard time meeting Eames’s knowing gaze. “I . . . he . . . damnit, Eames, I—“  
  
“Look, I know he’s a charming, devastatingly attractive man . . . but that may be all there is to him, Yusuf. And frankly, you deserve far better than that.” Eames smiles that wistful, sad smile again. “Far,  _far_  better.”  
  
Yusuf runs a wet, harried hand through his hair. “It’s not like that, you know. He really  _is_ interested in me in a professional capacity.”  
  
“I never said he wasn’t. But he’s using that to worm his way under your skin. Be aware of that, and plan your next move accordingly.”  
  
“’Move’? Eames, this isn’t chess!”  _It’s business!_  Yusuf means to add, but doesn’t. He’s beginning to feel like a broken record.  
  
“No, it’s not chess. It’s much worse than that, isn’t it?” Eames pats his arm consolingly. “Just be careful, eh? Let him into your bed, if you feel you can’t resist, but don’t let him any further than that. You’ll regret it if you do.”  
  
And with a final smile—somewhat pitying, or so it seems—Eames is gone, leaving Yusuf to face his own reflection.  
  



	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary.

Yusuf expects to have to wait for Robert’s hired car to arrive—the man had insisted on sending one, despite Yusuf’s discomfited demurring—but instead finds a black [Maybach](http://www.google.com/imgres?um=1&hl=en&sa=N&biw=1024&bih=826&tbm=isch&tbnid=tvTnozzjlcX5cM:&imgrefurl=http://jalopnik.com/5151313/maybach-zeppelin-revealed-ahead-of-geneva-coronation&docid=UQmDBxJqlW5UCM&imgurl=http://cache.gawkerassets.com/assets/images/12/2011/10/Maybach_Zeppelin.jpg&w=804&h=371&ei=VInOTs-PKKT00gG6gvEM&zoom=1&iact=hc&vpx=282&vpy=517&dur=148&hovh=152&hovw=331&tx=202&ty=79&sig=116097967733522101131&page=5&tbnh=103&tbnw=223&start=67&ndsp=16&ved=1t:429,r:9,s:67) idling right in front of the Fischer-Morrow building, completely disregarding zoning regulations and posted signs.  
  
Leaning on the driver’s side door is a woman he at first takes to be a child, she’s so small. But her uniform of black chauffer's cap, black velvet jacket, black stretch-pants, and . . .  _black motorcycle boots_ , of all things, marks her as the pilot of said Maybach.  
  
He approaches the car hesitantly, slinging his ratty Jansport over one shoulder and attempting to smooth and straighten his blue flannel shirt. The jeans, he knows, are a complete loss.  
  
“Uh,” he says adroitly, and the driver smiles.  
  
“Hey. You must be Yusuf. I’m Ariadne Dufresne, your driver for the afternoon.” She sketches a neat, sardonic little bow then opens the back door of the Maybach. “Slide on in and I’ll squire you guys away to your destination.”  
  
“Uh,” Yusuf says again then conjures up a mumbled “thank you” to go with it. Ariadne dimples and twinkles up at him, and nods at the open door.  
  
“In you go.”  
  
“Right. Thanks.” Yusuf hurriedly slides into the car, pausing only momentarily when he sees Robert back there, reading something on his tablet and frowning.  
  
“I’ll be all yours in just a minute,” he says absently. “Just finishing up some last minute business.”  
  
“Oh. Take your time.” Yusuf sits, pulling his other leg into the car. The door shuts smartly behind him. Seconds later, the Maybach is pulling smoothly into traffic.  
  
After a few moments of staring at Robert’s intent profile—is there no angle from which the man isn’t devastatingly handsome?—Yusuf refocuses on the world outside his tinted window. The scenery barely changes, as traffic is only crawling, so he sinks into the butter-soft leather of the seat and sighs happily. It’s more comfortable than his bed, which is a sprung, creaking old futon he doesn’t, after eight years, have the heart to replace.  
  
Behind the wheel of the Maybach, her head seeming to barely clear the dashboard, Ariadne mutters  _”oh, c’mon, really?”_  under her breath and taps the horn lightly. Ahead of them, an Audi creeps forward a few feet, the Maybach hot on its heels.  
  
“Sorry about that. A CEO’s day is never done, apparently.”  
  
Yusuf starts a little and laughs nervously, looking back over at Robert, who’s watching him with a small smile. The tablet is nowhere to be seen. “I, uh, would imagine not.”  
  
“I used to feel sorry for myself that my dad never spent a lot of time with me growing up, but now I see what he was dealing with—keeping an eye on investments and acquisitions, wheeling and dealing, fending off hostile takeovers, and just keeping the company healthy and growing—“ Robert sighs, glancing out the windshield briefly, his smile turning melancholy. “I have a whole new respect for the old man.”  
  
Uncertain what to do with this personal information, Yusuf shifts uncertainly, uncomfortably, then tentatively offers: “My father was a busy man, also, but he spent some time with me, when I was growing up. Mostly after I was in middle school. But we rarely did anything together that didn’t involve him badgering me about only being in the ninety-ninth percentile of my year. Then tutoring me until I was too tired to keep my eyes open. He was the same way with my older sister: he didn’t know how to relate to young people who weren’t students.”  
  
“Hmm . . . my father didn’t know how to relate to anyone that wasn’t on his payroll. He didn’t seem to care about my grades before I went to the best business school his money could buy me into. And he certainly didn’t tutor me.” Robert snorts softly. “He paid someone to do that, of course.”  
  
Yusuf tilts his head. “Does that mean that you win this round of “My Father Was An Emotionally Unavailable Bastard”?  
  
Robert’s profile gains a slow grin, and he looks over at Yusuf. “Was I being morbid and self-pitying?”  
  
Yusuf smiles back. “Just a tad.”  
  
“I apologize, then, and hope you don’t think me a bore.”  
  
“I don’t see how anyone could,” Yusuf replies then blushes, looking away from the return of that wistful smile. It does strange things to his stomach, like someone released a jar full of luna moths in his gut. “At any rate, there’s nothing to apologize for. At least not to me. We morbid and self-pitying types with daddy-issues can smell our own.”  
  
“Indeed, we can.” Robert sounds amused, and the silence that falls between them feels charged, but not exactly uncomfortable. In the driver's seat, Ariadne’s put in hot pink earbuds, and is nodding her head and tapping the wheel in three-quarter time. The Maybach continues to inch along.  
  
When Robert breaks the silence, it’s with a clear change of subject: “So, tell me a little bit about yourself, Yusuf. What  _did_  you go to school for? Ooh, wait—lemme guess: sociology.”  
  
“Actually I dual-majored in physics and engineering.” Yusuf is pleased to note the surprise that momentarily flashes across Robert’s face. “I was one semester away from my first Ph.D when I . . . had a melt-down, of sorts, and eventually dropped out.”  
  
Which is a very glossed-over way of saying  _I had to check myself into a psych ward for a few months before I was well enough to admit that I was ruining my life by trying to be a carbon copy of my father._  
  
As if almost hearing what Yusuf has left unsaid, Robert frowns. “If it’s not too personal . . . why’d you drop out?”  
  
Yusuf shrugs as if the biggest revelation of his life was a mere nothing. “I didn’t want to be like my father, either: a  _brilliant_  scientist with no room or patience for things like love, family, and an engaged life outside of lecturing and research.” He glances at Robert, who’s staring at him like he’s a puzzle that’s just starting to come together. Yusuf blushes yet again. “I want more out of my life than that.”  
  
“Ah . . . some of the mystery unravels,” Robert says somewhat playfully, and Yusuf laughs.  
  
“You think  _I’m_  a mystery?”  
  
Robert’s eyebrows quirk up. “Let’s see, a Ph.D candidate with an IQ from here to the moon—don’t deny it—working as a fact-checker for a men’s magazine with a slightly unsavory reputation? Yes, I’d say you’re something of a puzzle.”  
  
“Ah . . . does that mean you intend to solve me?”  
  
“Well, I  _am_  quite fond of puzzles. . . .” Robert murmurs, a faint flush rising to his cheeks that causes Yusuf to wonder. But then traffic clears unexplicably, the Maybach accelerates, and Robert once more turns the conversation to inconsequentials.  
  


*

  
  
“See something you like?”  
  
When Yusuf’s eyes whip up from the menu, Robert’s looking down at his own, a tiny, almost secretive smile playing about his lips.  
  
After reassuring himself that Robert is  _not_  flirting, Yusuf takes a quick look ‘round the bistro again. It’s what some might describe as cozy, but richly appointed in that home-y/comfortable fashion Yusuf’s seen on TV and in movies, but never in person. There are even things Yusuf recognizes as  _sconces_.  
  
Robert’s “usual” table is undeniably the best in the bistro, with a view of almost the whole room around them, while still providing a sense of privacy and seclusion. At least from Yusuf’s point of view. It’s almost—  
  
Well. Certainly  _not_  romantic.  
  
“Um.” Yusuf returns his gaze to the table and finds Robert watching him. “The menu is in Italian, and mine is a little rusty, so. . . .”  
  
Robert laughs apologetically. “Right. Well, if you’re not too particular about anything on the menu, I recommend my absolute favorite dish. I  _guarantee_  you the best pasta primavera you’ve ever had.”  
  
Yusuf, who’d forgotten about being hungry at all, opens his mouth to answer. Just then, his stomach growls audibly, “Um,” he says again, only slightly mortified. “Apparently my stomach is on board with the pasta primavera.”  
  
“Good. I’ll order for us.” Robert grins and signals the discreetly hovering waiter.  
  


*

  
  
“. . . and there was cobalt-blue smoke  _everywhere_ , and Mrs. Wright was absolutely livid,” Yusuf says, and Robert chuckles, taking a sip of his scotch. Yusuf does likewise with his sparkling water. “And that’s how I got my first and only A-minus.”  
  
“In chemistry?”  
  
“In, well,  _anything_.” Yusuf twirls the last of his pasta around his fork. “Mother and Nadira thought it was quite funny. Father thought it . . . less so. But then, he had no sense of humor. Thankfully Mother had enough for them both.”  
  
“'Had'?”  
  
Yusuf hesitates then answers quietly. “She passed on shortly before I graduated from high school.” Another pause. “Aneurysm.”  
  
Robert nods. “Cancer,” he says grimly.  
  
Silence falls between them again, solemn and pensive as they both think of the mothers they've lost. It lasts through the final bites of their respective lunches . . . this time, Robert doesn’t seem to know how to break it or with what. He seems to be content with sneaking peeks at Yusuf that Yusuf only just barely catches out of the corner of his eye.  
  
“So . . . we’ve talked about me, ad nauseam. What about you?” Yusuf ventures almost timidly, making sure to catch Robert’s darting gaze and hold it.  
  
“Uh, heh, what  _about_  me?” Robert flushes again.  
  
“Well, when did  _you_  first get an A-minus in school?” Yusuf asks jokingly, but the smile that it causes is anything but mirthful.  
  
“Ah. In college, actually. In the one elective I didn’t actively hate. And it was a vast improvement over the solid C-pluses I’d gotten over the course of my academic career.” Robert laughs ruefully. “Turns out I had something of a minor knack for photography. Which, as you may have guessed, is supremely useful to a business major.”  
  
Shifting in his seat, Yusuf realizes he’s put his foot in it. But he doesn’t know what else to ask, other than the obvious. “Do you keep up with it, then? Photography?”  
  
Snorting, Robert knocks back the rest of his scotch. “I haven’t touched a camera in ten years,” he says flatly, emotionlessly.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
That charming grin makes a strained comeback that doesn't reach his eyes. “Yes,  _oh_.”  
  
 _Definitely_  uncomfortable now, Yusuf looks away. Catches a guy in a cheap two-piece suit staring directly at them from across the bistro, despite their secluded corner. The guy looks away quickly, sliding something into his jacket pocket. But before Yusuf can make anything of it, Robert’s clearing his throat.  
  
“Anyway. I was going to pick your brain. . . .”  
  
It’s another change of subject, and a welcome one. “Yeah. About  _Dude_ ,” Yusuf agrees, without any anticipation. The last thing he really wants to talk about now is the magazine at which he works. Said magazine being owned by the man sitting across from him. But then he remembers that it’s imperative that he, if no one else, put  _Dude_ ’s best foot forward. That this lunch may be—may  _only_  be—his chance to sell the magazine to a man who’d probably have no qualms about liquidating it, or selling it off to some corporate entity that’d change it beyond recognition and replace all of its columnists.  
  
And all because Robert Fischer wasn’t shown that  _Dude_  is more than just a magazine . . . it’s a _family_. A family Yusuf cares about in a way some gold-plated fat-cat could never conceive of.  
  
 _And that’s all he is, when it comes down to it,_  a voice reminds him. It sounds like Eames at his most forthright.  _Put aside the charm, the looks, the poor-little-rich-boy facade, and what you’re left with is a man who cares only for the bottom-line. Trying to make him see_ Dude _as anything else is a waste of time. Focus on making him see how profitable a magazine it is and could be with the right amount of attention and investment. That’s the only tactic that works with his sort._  
  
True. All of it true. And yet . . . every time Yusuf looks into Robert’s blue eyes, he manages to forget that, somehow.  
  
“So,” he says, looking at Robert’s hair, his tie, his class ring—anywhere but his  _eyes_. “Fire away. What do you want to know?”  
  


*

  
  
“You’re awfully quiet. Indigestion?”  
  
Yusuf stares at the back of the driver’s seat, stolidly refusing to let himself look at Robert. “Oh, no. Lunch was lovely. Thank you.”  
  
“No, thank  _you_. You’ve answered all my questions about  _Dude_. Even the clearly uninformed ones.” Robert chuckles. “And besides that, you were a perfectly charming lunch companion. Something I rarely experience.”  
  
Yusuf blushes and ahead of him, Ariadne murmur-sings along with whatever she’s listening to. Yusuf can't catch a word of it, though. “I’m glad I could be of use.”  
  
A weighty silence, then: “Is that how you see me taking you to lunch? As ‘using’ you?”  
  
“No, I—“ Yusuf risks a quick look at Robert, who’s watching him intently and unreadably. “No. I mean . . . I’m glad I was able to answer your questions, but I also . . . enjoyed your company.”  
  
Robert’s smile—the  _real_  one, as Yusuf’s coming to think of it—makes a comeback. Makes Yusuf’s breath catch. “You know, we could continue enjoying each other’s company. How about tonight? Over dinner? Unless you have other plans. . . .”  
  
Surprised, Yusuf swallows then swallows again, silently cursing Eames for always being right. At the same time, he is also surprised to realize, he’s blessing the man for the exact same quality. “I—I  _had_  plans, but if you have more questions about  _Dude_. . . ?” he says softly, face aflame as he looks away.  
  
He knows Robert doesn’t have any more questions. And the questions he had had earlier were questions Yusuf doesn’t doubt Dom could and did answer, and in much more detail than Yusuf.  
  
Robert’s voice is wry when he answers. “Yusuf, you don’t answer a man’s Out with an In. It makes things . . . socially awkward.”  
  
Confused, Yusuf looks up again. Robert seems amused, but his eyes haven’t lost their intensity. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”  
  
“’Unless you have other plans’ was my way of giving you an Out, in case you didn’t wish to potentially extend our relationship into a more personal one. You answered my Out with an In: ‘If you have more questions about  _Dude_. . . .'” Robert snorts again. “We both know I don’t have any other questions about  _Dude_ —I could write a goddamned  _thesis_  about  _Dude_ , by now.”  
  
“Oh.” Yusuf  _can’t_  look away, now. His face is so hot, he knows his blush is probably showing through his complexion and his palms are sweaty to the point of grossness, it seems. His mouth is dry and the luna moths in his stomach are fluttering to get out. He wants to say something, anything, but he’s afraid if he opens his mouth, all that will come out is a belch and a moth.  
  
“I’d hoped for a little more than ‘oh,’ again.” Robert still sounds amused, but disappointed underneath it.  
  
Yusuf bites his lip. And still doesn’t answer. He wants to say yes. He wants to say no. He wants to open the door and roll out of the Maybach like a stuntman, jump to his feet, and run home to his tiny apartment.  
  
But mostly, he wants to look into Robert’s eyes again, and that’s the one thing he doesn’t  _dare_ do.  
  
“Why did you stop doing photography?”  
  
Yusuf can feel Robert’s surprise as keenly as his own at what came out of his mouth. But there’s no taking it back, and the question feels important, somehow.  
  
Robert sighs, seeming irritated. “Because it was a childish interest that was doomed to go nowhere, and I had more important things to do with my time.”  
  
Now Yusuf’s the one who’s disappointed, and he bites his lip again, trying to think of a way to say no to dinner that won’t offend Robert any more deeply than he already has.  
  
The silence between them—unhappy and uncomfortable on Yusuf’s part, annoyed and almost angry on Robert’s—spins out so powerfully, even Ariadne glances up at them in the rearview mirror. Then she goes back to head-banging with whatever’s playing on her iPod and glaring at traffic.  
  
“And anyway,” Robert finally adds, more than a touch defensively. “It was too tempting to get wrapped up in something I loved and forget my duty to the family. To my father.”  
  
Every word is clipped, and when an oddly relieved Yusuf steals a glance at Robert’s stony profile, that perfect mouth is pursed and grim.  
  
“But things are different, now.  _You’re_  different.” Yusuf reaches out hesitantly then lays his hand gently on Robert’s arm. When Robert looks over at him, his gaze is so fierce, Yusuf sits back. Almost removes his hand, but Robert’s hand covers it with his own.  
  
“I don’t even take pictures with the camera in my damn phone,” he says quietly, but just as fiercely, as if he’s trying to make Yusuf understand something crucial. And maybe Yusuf just can’t, or simply won’t understand, because for a few moments, all he can do is let Robert’s cool, strong hand hold his own and bask in Robert’s regard.   
  
“Maybe . . . maybe you should,” he suggests tentatively, and this time Robert’s the one to sit back and look surprised. As if the thought had never occurred to him.  
  
Perhaps it hadn’t.  
  
Yusuf carefully extracts his hand, which tingles rather alarmingly, in a way it never has before. He has to look at it just to make sure it’s actually not on fire or something. At least, that’s what he tells himself when Robert’s eyes become too much to bear any longer.  
  
“I,” Robert says, then clears his throat and says it again, a little more firmly. Followed by: “That is,  _shall I_  pick you up around eight? At your place?”  
  
Relieved once more, Yusuf nods once, a little afraid of the way his whole being is in complete affirmation. “Eight is good. Um.” He unzips his backpack and roots around for a pen. What he finds instead is a blue Sharpie he doesn’t even remember buying, let alone putting in there.  
  
Shrugging, he uncaps it with his teeth and boldly reaches over and grabs Robert’s left hand. It takes him a moment to remember his own address, but he does, and writes it on Robert’s pale-pink palm in his tiny, crabbed print. Followed quickly by his phone number. “Just ring the buzzer and I'll be right down.”  
  
“Okay.” Robert flexes his fingers when Yusuf reluctantly lets go of his hand. Then he smiles and reads his palm, lips moving slightly. “I will.”  
  
Yusuf caps the Sharpie and drops it back in his bag. “Or you can, you know, call me when you get there. Or any time. Just to touch base.”  
  
“I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
They don’t speak for the rest of the ride back to the Fischer-Morrow building. Yusuf is too busy staring out the window and fighting to quash the scandalized, disbelieving Eames-voice in his head to hold any kind of decent conversation. Which leaves Robert to sneak not-so-quick glances at him and smile that wondering little smile.  
  
The moths in Yusuf’s stomach redouble their efforts to flutter their way out.  
  
The Eames-voice does  _not_  approve.


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary.

Needless to say, Yusuf’s back late from lunch.  
  
When he slinks in at four thirty-eight, however, no one seems to notice. No one comes by to remind him that returning from lunch nearly three hours late is frowned upon.  
  
No one—not even Eames—questions where he’s been all this time. In fact, it seems like half the columnists are gone, there are so many cubicles empty. Including Eames’s.  
  
 _Ah, yes . . . it’s Friday, isn’t it?_  Yusuf suddenly remembers. Which means Eames has probably been gone since two. At nearly quarter to five, even Arthur’s gone, and he usually never passes up a chance to work late. Dom, who probably sleeps in his office instead of at home with his wife, is, of course, still here. Yusuf can make him out through his office window blinds, pacing and talking on his phone.  
  
Sitting, half thankful and half offended, in his cubicle, Yusuf logs back into his computer and opens up his work on the  _ **ZAP!**_  bars, ostensibly to do what he’s paid to do.  
  
Instead, he calls his sister and leaves a message on her voicemail, telling her apologetically that he won’t be able to make dinner that night.  
  
“Yeah, I have a, um, thing. Sort of. And it’s kind of important or else I’d be there. Tell Oliver I said ‘S’up,’ and tell Adam that Uncle Yusuf misses him. Call me and we’ll set up another night for dinner . . . maybe you could even talk Father into coming . . . haha, yeah, right. Talk to you later. Bye.”  
  
Then, all he does is think about Robert Fischer till five thirty, which is officially his quittin’ time.  
  


*

  
  


> **From:**  Conor Eames [mailto:muhammad.y@gmail.com]   
>  **Sent:**  Friday, May 09, 2011 6:01 PM  
>  **To:**  Yusuf Muhammad  
>  **Subject:**  READ ME 
> 
>  
> 
> Had to skip out a bit early, obviously. But I found this article and thought of your little situation. Do be careful, darling. And call me if you need to talk.
> 
> ~Eames
> 
> <http://www.dishweekly.com/lifestyle/article/1,,20547029,00.html>

  
  
The message is waiting for Yusuf in his private email when he logs in at his apartment.  
  
“Huh.” He’s curious, but not overly so—Eames sends him loads of emails, usually forwarding him pleas for advice sent from his many readers. But sending Yusuf links to random oddities is not unheard of, either.  
  
Whatever. It’ll wait.  
  
Padding barefoot to his bedroom, Yusuf shrugs out of the day’s clothes, spends twenty minutes trying to figure out what to wear—the only suit he owns is the one he wears to funerals and job interviews—for his dinner with Robert.  
  
Robert . . . the man whose attention Yusuf had somehow snagged. The man Yusuf can’t seem to stop thinking about in idle and not so idle moments. The man who, for some inexplicable reason, is interested in Yusuf in a largely personal way.  
  
“Or not. Maybe he simply wants me for sex,” Yusuf opines, looking in the mirror. Despite overcoming the intense body-shyness of his teen years, he still has a tendency to cringe when looking at his naked body in a mirror. All he can see are his imperfections: the six pack he’ll likely never have, the broad, but slightly stooped shoulders, the hairy chest that he’s not vain enough to bother shaving. . . .  
  
“Yeah, right.  _I’m_  Robert Fischer’s booty-call.” Yusuf’s reflection snorts. “He saw me, and instantly knew he had to have me.”  
  
But Yusuf’s self-deprecation aside, if Robert doesn’t want him in a purely sexual way, that leaves one other option: Robert is  _interested_  in him. In a date-y, boyfriend-y sort of way.  
  
Which is entirely impossible. Or at the very least extremely improbable. Isn’t it? For Yusuf is many things—smart, funny, and occasionally even witty—but Robert Fischer’s  _type_? Not that Yusuf even knows what said type is, but what are the odds Yusuf is it?  
  
It’s baffling, really. Yusuf can’t quite work his head around it. Even as he settles on a pair of light grey dress slacks, his nicest button-down shirt, and a charcoal-grey blazer (a gift from Nadira, like much of his wardrobe, since Yusuf can’t choose decent clothing to save his life) he wonders where Robert will be taking him, and why he’s taking him at all. Because guys like Robert—charming, successful, beautiful, intelligent—never seem to go for Yusuf. It’s always the losers, the weirdos, or the assholes who pound down Yusuf’s door.  
  
(Yusuf will never forget the one guy, handsome about the face but less so about the personality, whose idea of an icebreaker was to only half-jokingly inquire of Yusuf which “terrorist country” he hailed from. To which Yusuf had replied: “Roselle, New Jersey,” then got up and walked out of the Olive Garden, leaving his erstwhile date to all the breadsticks he could cram into his unfortunate mouth.)  
  
Robert Fischer  _seems_  to be neither a loser, weirdo, or asshole. Arrogant, maybe. Too certain of his own charm (but admittedly with good reason), definitely. Insensitive and a bit tone-deaf . . . yes, as evidenced by his earlier gaffe regarding Yusuf’s job-pride and  _Dude’_ s value. He certainly hadn’t the straightforward, brusque “common touch” Maurice Fischer, a self-made man, had had with all and sundry (according to Eames, who’d met the man several times). No, Robert Fischer was something of a rarefied creature, clearly born to the upper echelons of society.  
  
So his interest, whatever its nature, in Yusuf is just . . . unfathomable. At least to Yusuf. Undeniable, yes, just going on the way Fischer looks at him, but utterly unfathomable.  
  
“Perhaps my luck has changed,” Yusuf tells his reflection. It looks less than convinced. So Yusuf blows it a raspberry and makes his way to the bathroom for a quick shower.  
  


*

  
  
Showered and shaven, and feeling both refreshed and optimistic (but then, jerking off in the shower has always had that effect on Yusuf. Doubly so now, with Robert Fischer as his mind’s eye-candy), Yusuf belts his bathrobe and steps out of the bathroom.  
  
His livingroom is chilly and he turns the thermostat up then flops on his couch, feeling under the cushions for the remote. When he finds it, he turns the television on, flipping through the channels absently until he comes across  _Big Bang Theory_  on some network or other, and settles in to watch.  
  
About halfway through the show—and through a delightfully snarky Sheldon-joke—he remembers the email he’d received from Eames.  
  
Standing up with a groan, he shuffles over to his computer and pushes the mouse. The computer wakes itself out of sleep mode and there’s Eames’s email.  
  
Reading it again, quickly, with one ear on the television, Yusuf sits, wondering what on Earth the man has sent him. The link appears to be to a  _Dish Weekly_  article, and Eames knows Yusuf doesn’t read gossip rags like that (though Eames himself is quite hooked).  
  
Vaguely exasperated, Yusuf clicks on the link, eager to get it out of the way, so he can go back to watching t.v. and totally  _not_  thinking about Robert Fischer.  
  
When the link opens up, splashed across the top of the new page is a heart-shaped photo of a startled-looking Robert Fischer with his arm around a tall, cool blond with sculpted, fashion model good looks. Due to the magic of Photoshop, there’s a split down the center of the photo, breaking the heart in two.  
  
 **FISCHER and COLBY SPLIT!**  screams the bright yellow headline print.  
  
After nearly a minute of utter disbelief Yusuf scans the photo, unable to help it, or help thinking that he finally knows what Robert Fischer’s type is, and it definitely  _isn’t_  Yusuf.  
  
Yusuf groans and, kicking himself, closes the window. Closes the email, too, and goes back to his couch. Flopping down again, he crosses his arms and glares at the screen. Sheldon’s humor is now lost to him. But then, it’s hard to see the humor in anything when one is feeling both stupid and embarrassed.  
  
Had he really thought he could be Robert Fischer’s type? Had he even entertained such an outlandish notion, however briefly?  
  
Twenty minutes and half an episode of  _How I Met Your Mother_  later, Yusuf’s got the email opened again and is clicking on the link. Again. Quickly scanning the melodramatic title, he gets straight to the article without looking at the photo of Fischer and the beautiful blond again. He steels himself and begins to read:  
  
  


>   
> _**A Fairytale . . . Ending.** _
> 
> The whirlwind romance between infamous billionaire playboy Robert Fischer (son and heir of the late Maurice Fischer) and model/actor Taran Colby has come to a sudden and crushing end!
> 
> According to  **Dish Weekly**  sources, as well as this reporter’s own private interview with the Colby-half of the power-duo, Fischer ended the relationship to “save them both the time and effort of holding together something too dysfunctional to last.”
> 
> “He basically told me I wasn’t good enough for him, anymore and that we were going nowhere,” a poised, yet pensive Colby told this reporter. “That our lives were on two different tracks, and while he hoped we would always be friends, our ‘sexual relationship’ was over.”
> 
> Harsh words. Though not as harsh as they could have been. Indeed, Fischer has long been known for that way with words, choosing them seemingly in a way calculated to do the most damage. Several of his previous lovers have given interviews with this magazine and revealed Fischer’s tendency to systematically poison his romantic relationships with almost casual cruelty and serial infidelity, then to end them with what boils down to: “Sorry, I’m just not that into you.”
> 
> One might opine that with his attempt at tact in severing this latest relationship, he’s mellowed somewhat—or possibly grown a heart?
> 
> “I wouldn’t go  _that_  far,” Colby said rather dryly, when the possibility was suggested to him. “I think he’s just sick of the bad press. It’s not good for his image.”
> 
> One wonders, though, if this sudden split has anything to do with Fischer’s late father’s disapproval of the match. Colby said: “That’s unlikely. I mean, he never cared what his father thought about me when he was alive. Now that Maurice is dead, I doubt that’s changed. No, Robert Fischer only cares about himself. Something that’s apparent in every facet of his life, especially business and bed.”
> 
> Ooh . . . below the belt?
> 
> “Not at all,” Colby dismissed, lighting a cigarette thoughtfully. “I never said he was _bad_  in bed, just selfish. All he does is take and take. And  _take_.” He shivered visibly then winked. “It can be a turn-on.”
> 
> Do tell.
> 
> Colby then drew on his cigarette and smiled that world-famous Mona Lisa-smile, obviously about to leave the rest to the public’s vivid imagination.
> 
> Aw, c’mon, Taran. Give our readers the Fischer inside Dish.
> 
> “I don’t kiss and tell, Harland,” he purred. “Robert likes to keep his private life _extremely_  private.”
> 
> Give us a  _little_  something. . . .
> 
> “Weeeellll,” Colby sat forward with the air of a man about to Dish, “once upon a time, he’d have killed me for talking about him to you, of all people, but I guess I don’t have to worry about  _his_  opinion, anymore. What do you want to know?
> 
> I’m sure I have a million questions—
> 
> “I’ll give you three,” Colby playfully informed me, and I put myself in the shoes of you, Dear Readers, and fired away.
> 
> So, what’s the great Robert Fischer like in bed?

  
  
Yusuf stops reading here, feeling uncomfortably like he’s about to cross a boundary he hasn’t yet got the right to cross. He reminds himself that whatever  _Dish Weekly_  and Robert’s ex-lover have to say about Robert are to be taken with a grain of salt. That whatever Robert’s other flaws might be,  _he_  wasn’t the one to go public with the details of his break-up.  
  
But Yusuf’s eye is drawn helplessly past several other photos of the pair, down to the last paragraph.  
  


> Robert Fisher could not be reached for comment, but his press agent informed this magazine that: “Mr. Fischer’s personal relationships are not grist for the public mill.”
> 
> This reporter would beg to differ.
> 
>  
> 
> _— Harland Nash. Photos by Jason Renner, Alan Most and Rachael Lyndon._.

  
  
Yusuf closes the window and Eames’s email, and sits back in his creaky chair.  
  
He knows, for certain, what Eames’s advice—or any sane person’s advice—would be: steer clear of Robert Fischer. And yet. . . .  
  
And yet.  
  
Oh, he could do that easily enough. It’s not as if they move in the same circles. But he doesn’t _want_  to steer clear. What he wants is to know why Robert is interested in him. He knows, of course, why  _he’s_  interested in Robert. But that interest can’t be reciprocated for the same reasons . . . can it?  
  
After all, Yusuf is no model. He’s not gorgeous—though he can admit on some days he’s kind of cute—not refined, he doesn’t have the kind of  _je ne ce quois_  that makes people flock to him. He’s just . . .  _Yusuf_. Plain, old, reliable, predictable, boring Yusuf.  
  
What could Robert possibly see in him worth bedding, let alone dating? And even if he saw _something_ , what are the odds whatever unlikely  _thing_  he and Yusuf could have would last long enough to get anywhere? In fact, Yusuf would probably be getting that “I’m just not that into you” speech sooner than most, and then. . . .  
  
Well, then that’d be that. Nothing lost, nothing gained. No forever-love, no broken hearts. Just two guys with nothing in common discovering that they indeed have nothing in common. Robert’s inexplicable interest would fade, and Yusuf would mess up somehow and the whole thing would quietly fall apart.  
  
That’s almost surely how it would go, assuming there was more than the one dinner date.  
  
Telling himself that, Yusuf stands up. It’s almost eight. Time to get ready for a dinner that means nothing and will go nowhere.  
  
Which doesn’t mitigate the return of the luna moths, or the big smile on his face.  
  


*

  
  
When the buzzer rings—promptly at eight—Yusuf is in the bathroom attempting to make his hair lay flat or at least all stick up in the same direction. But even product isn’t enough to tame it into submission, and by the time the buzzer rings, he’s had enough.  
  
He grabs his cellphone, wallet, and keys, steps into his newest shoes, a pair of black loafers Nadira gave him as a Ramadan gift, and takes a deep, steadying breath.  
  
Then he’s out the door, that same big smile on his face.  
  


*

  
  
“Wow, you look  _sharp_!”  
  
Yusuf blinks then blushes. “Uh. Thanks, Ariadne.”  
  
She tips him a wink then hops down the front stairs of Yusuf’s apartment building. Stray locks of hair have escaped from under her cap and curled down her neck. “Bobby woulda picked you up himself, but he had a last minute meeting. Very last minute.”  
  
Yusuf follows her to the now familiar Maybach, frowning. “So Robert’s not here?”  
  
“Affirmative. But—“ Ariadne opens the back door for Yusuf, who slides in hesitantly. “—he asked me to squire you to  _Lo Bello_ ’s, where he’ll meet you shortly.”  
  
“Oh-kay,” Yusuf says as Ariadne shuts the door. For the few moments it takes her to get to the driver’s side and into the car, Yusuf is keenly uncomfortable. Being in Robert’s car when he’s not there is like how he would imagine being in Robert’s apartment when he’s not there is:  _weird_.  
  
Then Ariadne’s in the car and buckling her seatbelt. She checks the mirrors, starts the car, and pulls into traffic so fast, Yusuf—who not only can’t drive, but marvels at those who can—can only boggle and shake his head. Such a tiny woman pilots such a huge car as if she was born doing it, and here Yusuf won’t even let Nadirah give him lessons in her tiny, broken-in Audi.  
  
“So . . . how soon is soon?” Yusuf asks, and Ariadne glances at him in the rearview mirror, frowning a little. It’s a strange look on a face made for smiling.  
  
“Well, probably within a half hour. But truth to tell, these meetings can occasionally run  _late_ , in my experience. But if Bobby’s gonna be later than a half hour, he’ll call you. In the mean time,  _Lo Bello_ ’s makes great breadsticks and has an  _excellent_  wine list. Just chill out till he shows up, alright?” Those dimples flash again and Yusuf can’t help returning the smile, this time. Something within him relaxes and he leans back in the plush seat.  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“Good.” She nods with the air of one glad to see something settled. Then her eyes flick to traffic, and she groans, rolling down her window and leaning out to yell: “ _Hey, cunt-rocket! This ain’t a parking lot! Let’s andelay!_  God, I swear Bobby may beat us to  _Lo Bello_ ’s if this guy doesn’t get his snail-ass in gear,” she confides to a goggling, slightly horrified Yusuf. Then she sighs and says something every taxi driver Yusuf’s ever had says: “This city, I tell ya.”  
  
Horror fading into humor, Yusuf laughs. Laughs until she stops stealing glances at him in the rearview and actually looks over her shoulder. “What’s got  _you_  so tickled?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing. Might I ask—were you perhaps a taxi driver in another life?”  
  
Ariadne’s eyebrows shoot up and she grins, looking forward again. “In another life, I was. Then I started driving for  _Patrick’s Car Service_  a couple years back, which is how I met old Mr. F, may he rest in peace. He kept requesting me as his driver whenever he was in town, and eventually I wound up working for him.” That bright smile turns wistful. “I guess you could say Bobby inherited me when Mr. F. passed on a few months back.”  
  
Curious, Yusuf sits forward a little. “I never got to meet Mr. Fischer. What was he like?”  
  
“Ah, you probably woulda liked him.  _Probably._  He was a complicated old guy, but he respected the working man. And even though he was richer than God, he had the common touch.” Yusuf starts to hear his earlier thoughts echoed. “He probably woulda liked  _you_. At least more than he liked Bobby’s other . . . companions. You’re a good guy, not a useless twat like the others. Especially that last one. Nothing but a climber.” Ariadne scowls.  
  
That last one being, as far as Yusuf knows, Taran Colby.  
  
“I take it you didn’t approve of him.”  
  
“Fuck,  _no_!”  
  
“And I further take it that said disapproval was reciprocal.”  
  
Ariadne sniffs. “After old Mr. F. died, the Useless Twat tried to get me fired. But Bobby wasn’t having any of it,” she says proudly. “He and his Pop were almost  _nothing_  alike, but they both had that same loyalty to their employees and associates.”  
  
“’Had’?”  
  
Her eyes meet Yusuf’s in the rearview again then skitter away. “Weeelll . . . lately Bobby’s been reassessing the . . . value of certain parts of Fischer-Morrow Publications, trying to trim the fat, so to speak.” Another sigh. “I think he’s trying to do his own thing, build his own empire, and create his own sandcastles. And he can’t exactly do that if he’s only playing with his father’s sand.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Snorting again, Ariadne lays on the gas when the car ahead of her finally puts on some speed. “I don’t think you do. I think you’re so worried he might sell your magazine out from under you that you can’t see all the other angles.” She shrugs. “Which is understandable. But you’re going to have see it from his side if you have any hope of convincing him not to shit-can  _Dude_.”  
  
Yusuf’s mouth drops open and Ariadne’s smile turns knowing. “Didn’t think you were that transparent, didja? Well, you are. On the way back from lunch, all you talked about was how awesome  _Dude_  is, and how hard-working the people are. A real hard sell. And if I could see what you were doing, I don’t doubt Bobby could see it, too.”  
  
“Oh.” Yusuf looks out his window and commences feeling like an utter fool. He’d genuinely thought he was being subtle, and going under Robert’s radar.  
  
“It’s okay, you know. Bobby wasn’t, like, offended, or anything. I think he found it kinda . . . cute.”  
  
“ _Cute_?” Indignant, Yusuf glares at the car keeping pace with them. The driver is talking on his cellphone and straying somewhat toward the Maybach. Ariadne even has to tap her horn to get him to stick to his own lane. “I’m fighting for my and my friend’s jobs, and a magazine that Mr. Fischer built up from nothing, and it’s  _cute_?”  
  
“Hey, look, that’s just my words, and in case you hadn’t guessed, I can be an asshole,” Ariadne says quickly. “Just cool out. All I meant was that  _your_  loyalty to  _Dude_  is part of why Bobby likes you so much. You’re a real person. Realler than most of the plastic people he meets. He’s smitten with you. And don’t act like you’re not just as interested in him,” she adds sternly. Yusuf look over at her, but she’s got her eyes firmly on the car ahead of them.  
  
“What makes you think I’m after anything more than saving my job?”  
  
“Umh, hello? Remember what I said about how transparent you are?” She laughs a little. “Dude, it’s  _so_  obvious how into each other you are, it’s kind of—well, I hesitate to use the word  _cute_ again. . . .”  
  
Yusuf closes his mouth on the denial that wants to come bursting out of his mouth and eventually heaves a sigh.  
  
“We have nothing in common and I’m no irresistible pretty-boy. Frankly, I think this whole thing is patently silly.”  
  
“Maybe a little patent silliness is what you both need.”  
  
Now Yusuf’s the one to huff. Ariadne laughs again.  
  
“And you may not be  _pretty_ , but you’re  _hot_. And damned handsome.” Ariadne’s gaze flicks back to him, arch and assessing. “ _I_  wouldn’t kick you out of bed for eating crackers, and . . .  _hey, butthole, the light’s GREEN, already!_  This  _city_ , I swear!”  
  
Still blushing, Yusuf sits back and closes his eyes, listening with half an ear to Ariadne’s acerbic, amusing rant about all the ways the city’s gone to the dogs since Duffy took office.  
  
The other ear is tuned entirely on his cellphone, which remains as dumb as a brick all the way to _Lo Bello_ ’s.  
  


*

  
  
Ariadne parks in the NO STANDING zone in front of the restaurant, and in a trice has Yusuf’s door open with a sardonic bow.  
  
“Thanks,” he says awkwardly, getting out of the Maybach and eyeing the environs.  _Lo Bello_ ’s is an understated townhouse, in a row of similar townhouses, the only difference being the wrought iron sign bearing the restaurant’s name.  
  
“No problem-o.” Ariadne shuts the passenger door after him and leans on it, watching him thoughtfully. Reflexively, Yusuf runs a hand over his shirt—still tucked in—and his hair—still a wild and curly halo—and somehow refrains from checking his breath, which still, thankfully, tastes minty.  
  
“Don’t worry, you look fine, Casanova.” Ariadne grins. “By which I mean  _foine_. Very groinable.”  
  
“Um—“  
  
“Now, just tell the maitre d that you’re there to meet Robert Fischer and he’ll take you to Bobby’s usual table.”  
  
“Uh, right. Will do.”  
  
Ariadne nods once, crossing her arms and looking him over once more.  
  
“I think you’re gonna be good for him.  _Really good_ ,” she says finally, and Yusuf blushes again, looking everywhere but at Ariadne.  
  
“What on Earth makes you think that? Who says this dinner will lead to  _anything_?” he demands. He can see Ariadne waggling her eyebrows from the corner of his eye.  
  
“Chauffer’s intuition, Yusuf.” She winks. “Now skedaddle.”  
  
Taking a breath, Yusuf salutes her, still avoiding her too-knowing eyes. “Sir, yes, sir!”  
  
And on her laugh, he turns to face  _Lo Bello_ ’s.  
  
“Onward and upward,” he mutters, squaring his shoulders and walking purposefully toward the door.  
  



	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See first chapter for summary.

Even in his best togs, Yusuf feels terribly out of place at  _Lo Bello_ ’s.  
  
Not that anyone has made him feel that way—on the contrary, the maître d had been both helpful and friendly, the waitstaff deferential without being obsequious—but it’s painfully obvious, at least to Yusuf, that he doesn’t belong here. Not when half the clientele are famous (or infamous) and the other half are the kind of super-rich Yusuf’s only ever heard about on television.  
  
None of them seem to notice Yusuf, not even to make him feel out of place, but without Robert Fischer as his passport, he feels like a poseur. A soon-to-be-discovered poseur.  
  
So he sips his sparkling water and gnaws nervously on the excellent rolls brought by his waiter, and expecting at any moment to be put out.  
  
Finally, after an eternity of waiting (and three buttered rolls) Yusuf takes out his phone to check the time.  
  
Eight twenty-one.  
  
Rolling his eyes at his own nerves and impatience, Yusuf puts his phone back in his pocket . . . then takes it out again, setting it on the table.  
  
Rather than fill up on more rolls, he starts rearranging his silverware, instead. First, according to length, then according to use, then by alphabetical order. He’s mere seconds away from building a silverware enclosure for the few remaining rolls, when the phone chirrups, startling him into dropping all the forks on the table, whereon some bounce to the floor.  
  
Face aflame, Yusuf glances around to see if anyone’s noticed. Of course, no one has. Not even the waiters making their rounds.  
  
“Outstanding,” Yusuf mutters, checking his phone—it’s Eames, texting him—then leans down to scrounge for the dropped forks. He immediately locates two of them, then sees the third, near the leg of the table’s other chair.  
  
Glancing around once more—he is still unobserved—Yusuf leans under the table, meaning to dart in and grab the fork (with no one the wiser). What happens instead is he can’t quite reach the fork, and winds up having to duck under the table. Just as his fingers touch the tines, the phone chirrups again, and a voice says: “Drop something?”  
  
Startled, Yusuf sits up quickly. In the process, he bonks his head on the underside of the table. _Hard_.  
  
“ _Damnit_!” he grits out, seeing stars and fireworks on the backs of his eyelids as he carefully withdraws from under the table and sits up, rubbing his head.  
  
“Wow—are you okay?”  
  
Yusuf finds himself blinking up at none other than Robert Fischer, who’s standing right across from him, one hand on the back of his chair, the other in the pocket of his trousers. He’s wearing the same dark suit from earlier, with the tie slightly loosened. His hair is even a bit mussed, as if he’s been running his hands through it repeatedly.  
  
But that doesn’t matter. For a few moments, even the dull ache in Yusuf’s head doesn’t matter—is little more than a distant annoyance. His whole attention is taken up by Robert’s concerned, cornflower-blue eyes.  
  
“Er,” Yusuf says then clears his throat. He reaches up to rub the back of his head and discovers he’s still holding the first two forks. “I’m fine—fine,” he reiterates, trying to casually place the forks on the table.  
  
Robert’s eyebrows shoot up. “You sure? Because that sounded . . . painful.”  
  
“No, it was barely a bump. Didn’t hurt at all,” Yusuf lies, smiling even though it makes his head hurt worse. Robert looks as if he’s on the verge of saying something else about it, but then he shakes his head, smiling a little, and pulls out his chair.  
  
“At any rate, I didn’t mean to startle you—and I certainly didn’t mean to be this late,” he says apologetically, sitting down. His eyebrows shoot up again, and he leans back to glance under the table. Reaches down and comes up with the very fork Yusuf had been trying to get. He places it on the table next to the two Yusuf  _had_  been able to get. “I was in a rather important meeting and it ran a little over. Ariadne told you, right?”  
  
“Um, yes.” Yusuf fights a blush as he tries to realign the silverware to its original settings. Then he stops, realizing they’ll have to get new silverware, anyway, since half of it was on the floor. “I, er, hope the meeting went well. . . .”  
  
Robert chuckles. “ Everything’s still up in the air, for now. We called a halt to the proceedings when the only thing both parties could agree on was that we’d need more than one meeting to hash things out.” He rolls his eyes. “Frankly, I don’t know how these kinds of negotiations didn’t drive the old man insane. I think he actually thrived on them.”  
  
Yusuf smiles. “A master of the kill.”  
  
“Exactly—just mineral water, for now, thanks,” Robert adds to the waiter, who nods, and hustles off. Then Robert’s attention is all on Yusuf once more. “So. How was  _your_  day?”  
  
“You mean since five hours ago?”  
  
Robert cracks a wry smile. “I hope you didn’t have too much work to make up. I know I got you back kind of late. . . .”  
  
“Nah. I mean, it’s not that I didn’t have work to do, it’s just that Dom’s pretty cool about letting me make up hours. Not that I have to make up hours a lot, it’s just that sometimes—“  
  
“Okay, how about we not talk about work tonight,” Robert interjects, an amused twinkle in his eyes. Yusuf nods eagerly, blushing yet again, and nearly heaving a sigh of relief. “Tell me more about yourself.”  
  
Yusuf laughs a little. “Really, I talked about myself all afternoon. I’d like to know more about _you_.”  
  
That wry smile again. “Ah, where to start with the proverbial deep water that is Robert Sebastus Fischer . . . I don’t suppose you’d want to know what my super-secret favorite color is?”  
  
Yusuf grins. “May I guess?” When Robert nods, Yusuf pretends to think. “Hmm . . . I think I’ll go with pink.”  
  
Robert makes a face. “Yusuf, I’m gay, not a  _girl_!”  
  
Laughing, Yusuf tries again, looking Robert over for long moments. “How about red?”  
  
Now, Robert blinks. “That’s right. How’d you guess?”  
  
“Red, like blue and purple, is a power color, and red symbolizes nothing, if not power.”  
  
Robert’s smile is slow, and not at all wry. “It’s also the color of passion.”  
  
Yusuf takes a moment to admire the rolls once more, his face burning. “It’s also notoriously the color of danger.”  
  
For a few moments Robert doesn’t say anything at all. Then his hand, large and warm, settles on Yusuf’s, squeezing gently when, surprised, Yusuf looks up.  
  
“Sometimes a little danger is a good thing, no?”  
  
“No . . . I mean,  _yes_ , I guess . . . I wouldn’t really know.” Yusuf looks away from the questions in Robert’s eyes. “I’ve never really done anything dangerous before. Not on purpose.”  
  
Robert squeezes his hand again. “You should try it, sometime. It can be . . . exhilarating.”  
  
Yusuf risks a glance up at Robert, and catches a look of heated interest on that handsome face. “Are, uh, we still talking about colors?”  
  
“Not in the slightest, I hope.”  
  
And  _yes_ , Robert is still holding Yusuf’s hand, linking their fingers together. Yusuf lets him, and after a brief hesitation, looks up into Robert’s eyes again. This bit of bravery earns him a smile. Not the charming one, but the small, genuine one that always manages to take Yusuf’s breath away.  
  
“I just can’t figure you out,” he sighs, finally freeing his fingers and tucking his hands in his lap. Robert looks momentarily rueful, but then he’s smiling that charming, carefree smile again.  
  
“What’s to figure out, Yusuf? I find you extremely attractive. In light of that, do any of my actions seem so mysterious?”  
  
“I suppose not. However,” Yusuf says quietly. “You must admit, I’m hardly your type.”  
  
Robert quirks an eyebrow. “My  _type_? I see . . . and what, exactly, would my type be?”  
  
Caught out, Yusuf looks away. “I—I—“  
  
“No, according to you, it’s  _not_  you.”  
  
Yusuf purses his lips, stung, and looks up into Robert’s face again. Now, the charming smile is gone, replaced by a keen, forbidding stare.  
  
“I’m a fact-checker. You don’t really think that I wouldn’t check up on you, do you?” Yusuf semi-lies. He’d only bothered checking up on Robert’s business and charitable practices, not his personal life. No, those helpful bits of information had come from Eames.  
  
Eames, whom Yusuf suddenly, inexplicably, wishes to strangle.  
  
Robert sits back in his chair, actually frowning. “I see,” he says again, glancing down at his hand on the table. Yusuf can still make out his address on the palm, bright green and blocky. “So rather than just ask me about my previous . . . relationships, you thought it’d be better to do your own snooping.”  
  
Feeling vaguely ashamed of himself, Yusuf nonetheless holds his chin up. “You were, and still are, in some ways, an unknown quantity, and as I’ve said, I don’t live dangerously.”  
  
“And if living a little dangerously was what you had to do to be with me?” Robert asks quietly.  
  
Surprised, Yusuf blinks and feels his face heat up yet again. “I—what do you mean  _be with you_?”  
  
Robert snorts. “What do you  _think_  I mean, Yusuf?” Those keen, hard eyes search Yusuf’s own. “I’m not looking for a one-night stand, or a convenience fuck.”  
  
“Then what  _are_  you looking for?”  
  
Now Robert’s the one to sigh. “Honestly? I don’t know. But I’d kinda thought I’d found it.” The keen, hard stare softens a bit, and Robert holds his hand out on the table, palm up. “Was I wrong?”  
  
Yusuf stares at the hand, wanting, more than anything, to put his own in it. “I don’t know. All I know is, I’m not beautiful, or glamorous, or exciting, or elegant. I’m not the kind of guy that  _ever_ gets a guy like  _you_.”  
  
Robert frowns again. “How do you know you’re not all of that and more?”  
  
“Because I’m a realist, Robert.” Yusuf shakes his head. “I wouldn’t even begin to know how to be what you’ve looked for in men.”  
  
The wry smile makes a brief reappearance. “ _Looked_. Past tense. And what I looked for was vanity and a tendency to social-climb. Someone I could use for a while and dump, or vice versa, without feeling guilty. No emotional entanglements, no promises, no hurt feelings . . . or so I liked to tell myself.” Robert shrugs, rueful once more. “I wasn’t the world’s best . . . boyfriend, for lack of a better term. A bad boyfriend and a fucking coward.”  
  
“You don’t have to tell me this,” Yusuf says uncomfortably, putting one tentative hand on the table and within reach of Robert’s. When Robert’s eyes meet his, Yusuf lets their fingers brush before linking them once more. This is worth that genuine smile again.  
  
“The thought of ever having the things I find myself wanting to have with you scared the living Christ out of me, not too long ago. I was afraid of getting too used to it, taking it for granted only to have it taken away from me . . . so I did my best to avoid it altogether. And then my father died. . . .”  
  
“Robert—“  
  
“And I realized,” Robert forges on, as if Yusuf hadn’t spoken. “That life’s too short to be without something I’ve always wanted but been too afraid to let myself have.  
  
“Someone to let my guard down with,” Robert finishes calmly. Though it clearly costs him something to say it aloud. “Someone I can trust. Someone who’ll have faith in  _me_  . . . can you do that, Yusuf? Can you have faith that I’ll be a stand-up guy now, despite whatever you’ve read or heard about me doing in the past?”  
  
Yusuf looks down at their linked hands, his brow furrowed. “I want to. Lord knows, I want to. But all I can promise for now is that I’ll try. Faith, if it comes at all, will have to come in time.”  
  
After a few seconds, Yusuf can see Robert nod, from the corner of his eyes. “Well. It’s not like I was doing anything especially important with my life, lately. So time? I have plenty of,” Robert says; glib words, but with a quiet sincerity that settles something in Yusuf.  
  
Robert’s grip on Yusuf’s fingers is strong and feels unbreakable, as does his gaze when Yusuf finally meets it once more.  
  
And that’s how their waiter finds them a few minutes later: staring into each other’s eyes and holding hands. Robert absently asks for the wine list—in Italian—all the while smiling, smiling, smiling.  
  


*

  
  
“So . . . you know about  _my_  miserable track record . . . tell me something about yours?”  
  
Yusuf smiles a little, sipping his wine. It’s delicate and subtly divine. “That presupposes there’s something to tell.”  
  
Robert’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t mean to tell me that you’ve never been in a relationship!”  
  
“Of course I have . . . only the one, but yes. Back when I was an undergraduate and graduate.” Yusuf sneaks another peek at Robert. The man still looks gobsmacked. “He was my first and only boyfriend, and we were together for three years, until . . . until I had to choose between him and going to Northwestern for my doctoral studies.  
  
“I chose Northwestern . . . for all the good it did me, in the end.”  
  
Robert’s surprise turns into sympathy. “He didn’t want to move away from . . . where are you from?”  
  
Yusuf laughs a little. “Roselle, New Jersey. We were living together in Trenton and we both went to Rutgers University. Derek was . . . a political science major, and he wanted to settle and eventually run for office in Trenton, which was where he was born and raised. He wanted to make a difference.” Yusuf shrugs, as though at the time he hadn’t felt let down and betrayed when Derek wouldn’t leave squalid, crime-ridden  _Trenton_  for him. He supposes the loss contributed to his ultimate break down, a year later. There’d literally been no one to keep him from taking on more than he could handle and running off the rails. . . .  
  
“How long would you have been at Northwestern? Two years? Maybe three? It wouldn’t have been forever,” Robert scoffs, and Yusuf shrugs again.  
  
“Derek was an integral part of his community. He was involved with charities and local efforts at revitalization. He was a member of Big Brothers and Big Sisters, he volunteered at soup kitchens and help hotlines. He spear-headed the local recycling group and was even a member of the neighborhood watch,” Yusuf says with more than a bit of awe. Even now, he still admires Derek, and he doubts that will ever change. “He was so . . . altruistic and community-minded. And after me to be the same way. He wanted me to stay at Rutgers and get my teaching degree and teach in the local high school. Suffice it to say I wanted something different.”  
  
Robert  _hmm_ s, sipping his wine. “What  _did_  you want?”  
  
“I didn’t know. I just knew what I  _didn’t_  want.”  
  
“Ah. . . .” Robert smiles sadly. “I know how that goes. Hell, I spent so long running from what other people wanted for me, and look where I ended up. At least you got away.”  
  
Yusuf tries to return the smile, though it’s more of a grimace. “The cost was more than I expected. And I still have no idea of what I’m going to do with myself. As much as I enjoy fact-checking, I know I can’t do it for the rest of my life.”  
  
“If you enjoy it, why not?”  
  
Surprised, Yusuf lets out a breath then takes another sip of his own wine. “I . . . hadn’t thought of it that way. But . . . I don’t know. I don’t think it’ll satisfy me forever. Sometimes I miss—well, not physics, so much. But chemistry. I miss  _creating_ ,” he says, aware of the longing in his voice and unable to hide it.  
  
Robert watches him for a few silent seconds, then grins. “You’re such a nerd.”  
  
Yusuf bursts out laughing so loud, heads nearest them turn curiously.  
  
“And you’re  _just now_  figuring this out?”  
  
“Well.” Robert’s still grinning, but he makes a show of examining his half full wine glass. “The glasses made me wonder. Speaking of, where  _are_  your glasses?”  
  
“Contacts.” Yusuf’s clears his throat, still chuckling then he bats his eyes playfully. “I usually don’t wear them. I still have this horrific phobia to poking my finger in my eyes, but for tonight, I put aside my fears.”  
  
“Consider me flattered.”  
  
“You’d better be.”  
  
Robert laughs. “Believe me, I’m feeling lucky you said ‘yes’ to tonight at all.”  
  
Yusuf flushes. “Robert Fischer, feeling lucky to get a date with a fact-checking nerd? Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”  
  
Catching Yusuf’s gaze, Robert's own is suddenly very serious. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”  
  
It’s then that Yusuf remembers they’re still holding hands. And though his first instinct is to hastily let go . . . he doesn’t.  
  
“You’re beautiful, you know.”  
  
“Perhaps it’s  _you_  who need glasses.”  
  
Robert shakes his head. “Don’t do that. You’re  _gorgeous_. And smart, and funny, and sweet. You, my dear Yusuf, are a  _catch_.”  
  
Once more Yusuf is laughing. “Believe me, guys aren’t pounding down my door, demanding the pleasure of my company!”  
  
“More fool, them.” Robert’s grin turns wolfish. “And more Yusuf for me.”  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes again. “You’re a shameless flirt, Mr. Fischer.”  
  
Robert quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a bad thing?”  
  
“I was merely making an observation.” Yusuf raises his glass and Robert follows suit. “To shameless flirts.”  
  
“To gorgeous nerds.”  
  
They touch glasses.  
  


*

  
  
When they each settle on what they want to eat, Robert summons the waiter and orders for them both—once more in Italian—and sooner, rather than later, they’re eating dinner.  
  
Conversation pauses, for a while, as Yusuf watches Robert put away linguine and clams economically, with gusto, while he himself eats at a more sedate pace. Halfway through Robert’s plateful, the apparently hungry billionaire sits back with a sigh. “I beg your pardon. It’s been a rather long afternoon and evening, and I was  _starving_.”  
  
“So I’ve noticed,” Yusuf chuckles, spearing a bite-size piece of ziti with his fork. “And all you had at lunch was a Caesar salad. Man cannot live by lettuce alone.”  
  
“I know, I know,” Robert laughs, running a hand over his tie—which is red, and Yusuf  _has_ , indeed, noticed. “I just got used to eating sparingly and fast since father died. It seemed like I was always getting called away from meals for business, so I just. . . .”  
  
“Put the enjoyment of a good meal on the backburner?”  
  
“Well . . . even the best meals are nothing without good company, I find. And my ex wasn’t particularly good company unless one liked catty comments and general bitchiness.” Robert’s smile is self-deprecating and slightly bitter.  
  
“I take it you didn’t.”  
  
“Not really, no.”  
  
Deftly avoiding the tar-pit trap that is talking about Robert’s exes, Yusuf tilts his head curiously. “And what  _do_  you like to talk about during dinner?”  
  
Robert chuckles. “Way back when, last year? Art, theater, travel: general faggery, I suppose—“  
  
“ _General Faggery_ ,” Yusuf intones, saluting Robert with mock gravity. Robert’s startled look slowly morphs into an approving grin.  
  
“You know your  _How I Met Your Mother_ ,” he murmurs, and Yusuf returns the grin.  
  
“And I know my  _Ted and Robyn_ ,” he adds. “And it doesn’t hurt that I’ve had a crush on NPH since his Doogie-days, and would follow him to any television show he chose to grace.”  
  
“Aww,” Robert says, looking charmed then chagrined. “Should I be jealous?”  
  
“Terribly.”  
  
“Then I guess I should keep it to myself that I know him. . . .”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes widen. “Get. The fuck.  _Out_ ,” he breathes.  
  
“We’ve played racquetball together several times. He beat me every time.” Robert huffs. “But racquetball isn’t my game, anyway.”  
  
Putting Neil Patrick Harris aside for the nonce, Yusuf leans closer. “And what  _is_  your game?”  
  
“Fencing,” Robert says with real relish. “Been at it since I was eight.”  
  
“For real?”  
  
Robert nods proudly, offering a rakish sort of grin that sits  _very_  well on his face. “Haven’t gotten to do it much, lately, but I can still parry and block with the best of them.”  
  
“And I’ll bet you look great in the uniform, too,” slips out before Yusuf can sensor himself. This time, Robert’s eyes widen, and that slow, approving grin makes its return.  
  
“Oh, I’ve been told I cut quite a dashing figure with a foil, yes.”  
  
“And so modest, too,” Yusuf rolls his eyes, though he’s still fighting a blush.  
  
“Modest to a fault, I’m afraid.” Robert sighs with mock exasperation then laughs. “C’mon, Yusuf, eat up. I can’t wait for you to taste dessert. You’re gonna think your tongue has died and gone to Heaven.”  
  
“Hmm. Gonna order for me again? How butch of you,” Yusuf says, though he’s secretly somewhat charmed by this display of chivalry.  
  
Robert slouches back in his chair just a bit, giving Yusuf a lazy once-over. “That’s just how I roll, baby.”  
  
Heads turn once more as they both start laughing.  
  


*

  
  
Once more laughing, they step out of  _Lo Bello_ ’s, into the crisp night air, shoulders brushing, fingers once again linked together. The valet snaps to attention when he sees Robert then rushes off with a breathless: “I’ll get your Phantom, sir!”  
  
Yusuf looks at Robert, who smiles wryly as the valet—who couldn’t be older than twenty—disappears ‘round the corner. “That’s the kid that parked my car when I arrived. He nearly fainted when I pulled up.”  
  
“Ah.” Yusuf swings Robert’s hand a little. “I imagine he’s never driven a Rolls Royce Phantom, before.”  
  
Robert laughs. “Neither had I, at his age.”  
  
“I think you’ve made his night.”  
  
Laughing again, Robert squeezes Yusuf’s hand. “So . . . tomorrow there’s this dinner I’ve been invited to. It’s being held in honor of Patricia O’Sullivan—“  
  
“Of the O’Sullivan Charitable Council?” Yusuf interrupts to goggle at Robert, who smiles a little.  
  
“The one and the same. Patty’s a grand old dame.” Robert’s smile gets a little wistful. “You’d like her. Which segues nicely into me asking you to accompany me to said dinner as my guest.”  
  
Yusuf’s mouth drops open. “ _Me_?”  
  
Robert makes a show of looking over Yusuf’s shoulder. “Unless there’s another gorgeous, incredibly kissable nerd standing behind you. . . .”  
  
And so help him, Yusuf actually looks around.  
  
“Yusuf!” Robert laughs, squeezing Yusuf’s fingers with one hand and turning his face with the other. His fingers are warm and gentle on Yusuf’s chin, just like his gaze is warm and gentle on Yusuf’s own. “Yes,  _you_.  _Of course_  you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across Yusuf’s bottom lip.  
  
Repressing the urge to lick his lips—which are slightly chapped, as always—and thus lick Robert’s thumb, Yusuf holds his breath for a moment, then nods 'yes,' crossing his eyes trying to track the progress of said thumb.  
  
Robert chuckles huskily. “God, you’re adorable.”  
  
“Am not,” Yusuf denies automatically. And that’s all he gets to say before Robert’s gaze takes on that serious, I’m-about-to-kiss-you look, followed by his eyes fluttering shut, and  _oh_  . . . just  _oh_. . . .  
  
And maybe  _WOW_.  
  
Because from the moment Robert’s lips press his, to the moment the first push of Robert’s tongue against his lips makes Yusuf gasp, to the way Robert’s thumb continues to stroke his cheek, Yusuf’s got nothing going on behind his eyes but white lights and fireworks.  
  
And that moaning must be him, because it sure as hell doesn’t sound like  _Robert_.  
  
Lack of oxygen’s starting to be an issue, but Yusuf can’t bring himself to care if he ever tastes air again. The hand that had been holding his is sliding around his waist, to the small of his back, leaving Yusuf’s hands free to do whatever. But he doesn’t know what to do with them, so he simply wraps them around Robert’s neck.  
  
Robert pulls him closer, till it they’re pressed together all along their fronts, and he isn’t quite erect yet, but he is  _hard_ , and pressing insistently in against the hard-on Yusuf is just starting to have. Those fireworks behind Yusuf’s eyes begin to move decidedly south, settling somewhere at the base of spine and cock.  
  
Then the hand on the small of Yusuf’s back slips lower, till it’s palming and squeezing the curve of his ass. Yusuf moans again and Robert chuckles low in his throat, possessing Yusuf’s mouth like he’s been doing so for years.  
  
And Yusuf is more than willing to let him do so for years more. Or forever, whichever comes—  
  
“Wow! Hot stuff! Who’s your new  _friend_ , Mr. Fischer? Questioning minds want to know!”  
  
Yusuf barely even notes the annoying, insinuating voice coming from his left, but for the way Robert suddenly breaks the kiss.  
  
“Get out of here, Nash,” Robert all but growls in a cold tone Yusuf’s never heard from him. Finally opening his eyes, he looks over to see a vaguely familiar man, tall, skinny, dressed in a cheap suit, and holding a very expensive looking digital video camera.  
  
It’s aimed at Yusuf and to a lesser extent, Robert, who jumps in front of Yusuf as if to block him from the camera’s view.  
  
“Now, now, Mr. Fischer, the sidewalk is public property. I’m not violating any laws by standing out here, filming,” the man says, tipping Yusuf a smarmy sort of wink over Robert’s shoulder. “What’s your name, cutie-pie?”  
  
“Uh—“ Yusuf says, and Robert pushes Yusuf more firmly behind him.  
  
“Don’t answer him. He’s nothing but a carbuncle on the ass of society.”  
  
“Ah, I prefer to think of myself as the ever loyal press.” Nash winks at Yusuf again, his dark eyes amused and acquisitive. “So, are you Robert’s latest squeeze? How long has this been going on? Who  _are_  you? My readers want the Dish!”  
  
“For God’s sake, Nash, just go away and leave us in peace!” Robert’s words may be a plea, but his tone is more threatening than pleading. So much so that Nash takes a step back. But he doesn’t stop recording.  
  
At least not until Robert makes a grab for the camera. Nash darts back toward the curb, shoving the camera into his jacket pocket, and that’s when Yusuf places him:  
  
 _He’s the guy that was watching us earlier, at lunch—and he’s in all likelihood the same ‘Harland Nash’ who wrote that article Eames emailed me. Fuck._  
  
And the realization—that this man, this paparazzo—had likely stalked either him or Robert all day hits him like a ton of bricks. And it’s followed by the realization that Yusuf’s face— _their kiss_ —is likely to be splashed all across  _Dish Weekly_ ’s website and possibly the pages of their hard-copy magazine. . . .  
  
Meanwhile Robert has Nash pinned against a lamp-post and is threatening him with  _another_ lawsuit if even a split second of that video makes it onto their website.  
  
(Which would mean even more publicity that Yusuf frankly doesn’t want.)  
  
As Robert and Nash continue to tussle, Yusuf feels as if the bottom’s dropped out from under him. Because he knew—he  _knew_ —that Robert Fischer was too good to be true. That there had to be another shoe, and that once Yusuf let himself hope, it would drop.  
  
Being hounded by people like Nash is a pretty big shoe.  
  
Yusuf doesn’t know that he can, or even wants to deal with that. As badly as he wants Robert—and he does want Robert  _badly_ —he can’t imagine being . . . infamous in the way someone like Taran Colby is. He can’t imagine being recognized and gossiped about just because of who he’s dating. And on that note, how could he and Robert ever even get to know each other if they’re always fending off scoop-hungry reporters?  
  
“—sue  _you_  for theft of property!” Nash is all but screaming, his olive skin flushed, his dark eyes flashing. If not for what he represents, he’d be an attractive man. “I have every right to shoot whatever I want with  _my_  camera, and that includes you and your new fuck-buddy! So give. It. _Back_ , unless you want to make a  _very_  bad enemy in me.”  
  
Robert, who’s somehow gotten the camera, is holding it out of reach, grinning madly. “Oh, no! Another member of the press’ll be after me! Alas! The horror!”  
  
“Hey, fuck you, Fischer! I’m gonna plaster the entire city with your personal life—if you think I was on your case before, you just  _wait_  until I—“  
  
Just then the Phantom—a matte black that, if not for the headlights, would barely show up against the back-drop of night—rolls up and the valet hops out, looking wide-eyed and concerned.  
  
His eyes meet Yusuf’s, and Yusuf gestures at Nash and mouths  _grab him!_  
  
With a nod, the valet closes the driver’s side door quietly and creeps up behind Nash. A few seconds later Robert—still in the midst of intense bickering with Nash—catches the motion from the corner of his eye and his gaze flicks over Nash’s shoulder. Nash starts to turn to see what Robert’s looking at, but it’s too late. The valet gets him in a head-lock.  
  
“Augh!” Nash chokes out, like a crow that’s just gotten kicked in the nether regions.  
  
Robert looks utterly shocked, and turns that look from Nash and the valet, to Yusuf, who strides over to the trio.  
  
“I—Yusuf—I’m so sorry. I had no idea he was following me here, or I never would’ve—“  
  
“The camera, please,” Yusuf says quietly, and Robert hands it to him without hesitation. A few seconds of fiddling and he’s in the camera’s menu.  
  
He proceeds to delete everything from the camera’s memory, and from the memory card, as well.  
  
“Augh!” Nash protests again, reaching out for the camera. Robert smacks his hands away, but Yusuf willingly hands Nash the camera.  
  
“Alright, you may let him go. And thank you,” Yusuf says, smiling at the valet, who does as he’s bidden with a shove and a smile of his own.  
  
“Not a problem, sir. This shithead’s ambushed customers out here before,” the valet says distastefully. “Giving my restaurant a bad name.”  
  
Nash, meanwhile, is checking his camera. Yusuf must have indeed cleaned it out, because the reporter soon turns a burning, furious gaze on him.  
  
“You erased everything!”  
  
“Yes, I did.”  
  
Nash sneers, shaking his head. “You’re gonna be sorry. All three of you,” he adds, glancing at Robert, then at the valet (whose nametag proclaims him to be Devante).  
  
“Tell it to my lawyers,” Robert says flatly. “And should you get any ideas about bothering Mr. Devante or his place of employ regarding this or any other matter, you can contact my lawyers regarding that, as well.”  
  
Nash shakes his head again. “Fuck you, Fischer. And  _you_ ,” he cuts a harsh look at Yusuf. “You can’t hide forever. Not as long as you’re seeing  _this_  asshole. Sooner or later, you’re gonna wind up in the  _Dish_. They all do.”  
  
Which echoes Yusuf’s own thoughts on the matter so exactly, it gives him pause. A pause in which Robert frowns, Nash smirks, and Devante’s round eyes ping-pong back and forth between the three of them.  
  
But it’s that mean smirk, and Robert’s downcast face that decides Yusuf, for good or for ill. That puts steel in his spine and iron in his will. That makes him brave enough to throw caution to the wind for once, and go with his gut rather than his common sense.  
  
“Just make sure you capture my good side, eh?” Yusuf turns so that Nash can see his profile. Out of the corner of Yusuf’s eye, Robert is gaping. Devante, on the other hand, is snickering.  
  
Glaring at all of them, Nash stalks off muttering, rubbing his neck and pocketing his empty camera.  
  
Devante, the valorous valet, snorts. “Stupid shithead,” he says with grim satisfaction.  
  
Robert and Yusuf share a glance, and Robert smiles weakly. Then he’s taking out his wallet and approaching Devante.  
  
“Thank you for your assistance,” he says, and Devante looks at him, that semi-worshipful look on his face.  
  
“Not a problem, sir,” he says again, with a little laugh. “That guy’s a jerk.”  
  
“Indeed,” Robert puts his wallet away and holds out his hand for shaking. Devante takes it and pumps it eagerly. When Fischer frees his hand, Devante looks down at his own to find several folded bills in his palm.  
  
“ _Wow!_  Thanks, Mr. Fischer!”  
  
“Not a problem,” Fischer returns, cracking another smile. There’s nothing weak about this one.  
  
It heralds the return of the luna moths, and Yusuf can’t help but think that despite everything, including Eames’s warnings, he’s falling.  _Hard_.  
  


*

  
  
“So, how much did you tip him?”  
  
Robert shifts gears and speeds around a corner, the Phantom purring like a large, hungry cat. “Um. Maybe a grand.”  
  
Yusuf whistles. “You realize that boy’s going to start a Robert Fischer fan-club, right?”  
  
Robert rolls his eyes. “Ah, go on,” he says, meeting Yusuf’s gaze in the rearview mirror.  
  
The ride, thus far, has been quiet, Robert clearly lost in his thoughts. Yusuf hadn’t wanted to disturb him and, at any rate, was lost in thoughts of his own.  
  
Now, however, he finds he has some questions that he wants answers to.  
  
“Does that happen to you often?”  
  
Robert doesn’t even bother to ask  _what_. “Not really. And only Nash is that brazen about it. The other paparazzi snap their pictures and run,” he says ruefully.  
  
“Is he likely to keep following you—um,  _us_  till he finds out who I am?”  
  
Robert sneaks a glance at him then looks back at the road.  
  
“Probably,” he says tightly. "The shithead."  
  
Yusuf bites his lip and nods.  
  
They ride in silence once more, until Robert finally asks: “Did that whole scene put you off of seeing me?”  
  
Yusuf sighs. “At first? Yes,” he admits, and Robert nods, as if he’d expected as much. “But . . . I remembered what you said about living dangerously if I wanted to be with you, and . . . I  _want_  to be with you, Robert.” He puts his hand on Robert’s just as Robert shifts gears again. “And I’m not gonna let that . . . shithead get in the way of that. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.”  
  
Robert’s blue eyes, wide and surprised, meet Yusuf’s own in the rearview again. “You—are you serious? I mean, are you  _sure_?” He blinks several times then looks back at the road, his mouth pursed. “Nash isn’t going to stop, you know. And once he gets his pictures of us or the, ahem, dish he’s after . . . there’ll be more of them coming out of the woodwork. Your life’s going to become an open book, whether you want it to, or not. Your past’ll become fair-game.”  
  
Yusuf sighs, looking out the passenger side window, watching houses go by. “I know. And there’s not much there to find. Except. . . .” he removes his hand from Robert’s. But a second later, Robert’s hand covers his own.  
  
“Except, what?”  
  
Sighing again, Yusuf closes his eyes. “It’s . . . not something anyone outside my immediate family knows about. And not something I talk about, even with them—  
  
“Last year, just after school let out for the summer, I had an . . . episode, of sorts, just after I arrived home.” A nice way to gloss over the fact that he’d cracked like an egg while completing his online registration for the fall semester, throwing his laptop across his father’s livingroom and generally destroying every piece of furniture his eye fell on. Nadirah had come over that evening to cook them dinner, and found Yusuf crying in a corner of the livingroom, and their father torn between trying to approach Yusuf, and dialing 9-1-1.  
  
In the end, Nadirah had coaxed Yusuf out of the corner, gotten him into her tiny Audi—their father in tow—and driven him to the emergency room.  
  
“An ‘episode’?” Robert asks, snapping Yusuf out of his memories of that awful day which, considering everything, are extremely fuzzy and unreliable. “What kind of episode?”  
  
Yusuf looks at Robert, studying his profile before turning away again. “A mental and physical breakdown. I . . . spent three months in the hospital, as an inpatient. I was diagnosed with clinical depression, among other things. I’m still taking medication, and still in therapy for it. I probably will be for the rest of my life.  
  
“So, you see . . . I didn’t drop out just because I realized I didn’t want to be like my father.” Yusuf closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I dropped out because I  _couldn’t_ be like my father. Couldn’t handle the workload and the stress. The  _expectations_. I wasn’t . . . good enough, I suppose. Not emotionally or intellectually, to keep up with what others expected of me, and what I expected of myself.”  
  
Now, Yusuf steels himself and looks over at Robert, who’s frowning at the road ahead. “Well. That’s my big secret. The only one there is to be told, really. I have no doubt that given time and resources, Nash could find out not only who I am, but where I’ve  _been_.”  
  
Confession made, Yusuf falls quiescent, and Robert, for his part, doesn’t break the silence for several minutes.  
  
“I would never have guessed,” he says finally, squeezing Yusuf’s hand. His own is warm and possessive. “You’re the most grounded, stable person I’ve ever met, besides my father.”  
  
“It’s a mask I’ve worked very hard to perpetuate. I figure, if I can’t be sane, I can at least pretend. And who knows?” Yusuf laughs, flat and fake. “Maybe if I pretend long enough, I will be.”  
  
“Yusuf—“  
  
“That was just a joke,” Yusuf’s quick to add. “My life, of late, is stress-free and boring and predictable. And I  _like_  it that way . . . but I think I like you more. Danger, paparazzi, and all.”  
  
He can feel Robert’s eyes on him. “Is that so?”  
  
Meeting that wondering gaze, Yusuf nods. “Yes.”  
  
“Well. I like you, too: nerdiness, boringness, predictability and all. I like you a  _lot_.” Robert pauses. “But if the, uh, drawbacks of seeing me are going to negatively affect your health—“  
  
“I don’t think they will,” Yusuf interrupts, also quickly. “But it’s a risk I’m willing to take, if you’re still interested in me, that is.”  
  
“Are you kidding me?” Robert snorts. “Of course I’m still interested.” He pulls Yusuf’s hand up to his mouth and kisses it. “You have no  _idea_  how interested I am, Yusuf.”  
  
Yusuf blushes. “You’re incorrigible,” he stammers, and Robert laughs.  
  


*

  
  
When they pull up outside of Yusuf’s apartment building a few minutes later, Yusuf is suddenly _very_  shy.  
  
It doesn’t help that Robert is  _staring_  at him so intently, his gaze as hot as July sunlight.  
  
“What?” Yusuf finally demands, half exasperated (with himself) and half amused.  
  
Robert leans closer, his arm sliding back around the passenger seat. “I want to kiss you. Is that okay?”  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes, his frustration shifting focus. “Don’t  _ask_! Just—you know.  _Kiss_ —mmph!”  
  
It’s kind of hard to finish a statement when someone else’s tongue is in your mouth, Yusuf discovers. He also discovers that finishing statements is highly overrated.  
  
“Oh. My. God,” Yusuf pants when Robert lets him up for air. Briefly. Then they’re in melt-down mode again, Yusuf’s hands on Robert’s chest, Robert’s hands cupping Yusuf’s face gently.  
  
Yusuf gets another respite when Robert’s kisses wend their way south, down his chin and throat, to his collar bone. One of the hands that’d been cupping Yusuf’s face slide down his chest and stomach, to his belt . . . Robert has it unbuckled before Yusuf even realizes what’s happening, and is making short work of Yusuf’s fly, as well.  
  
“Wait—wait—“ Yusuf pushes against Robert’s chest, laughing a little.  
  
Robert groans, his hand already snaking into Yusuf’s boxers. “ _Wait? Really_?” He’s already got Yusuf’s cock firmly in hand. It feels . . .  _good_.  
  
But. . . .  
  
“Holy  _fuck_ —I mean, yes. Stop.” And it takes tremendous willpower for Yusuf to say that when Robert’s fingers are teasing up and down his shaft, feather-light and slow. . . .  
  
Then those talented fingers stop. After about a minute of torture, they stop, and Robert’s leaning his forehead against Yusuf’s and breathing hard.  
  
Shortly, their breathing turns into more kisses, and . . . Robert’s fingers, the ones that’d been stroking Yusuf’s cock, settle on his chest and begin playing with and pinching his nipples through his shirt.  
  
“God,  _Robert_. . . .”  
  
“You’re so responsive, so  _sexy_ ,” Robert murmurs on his lips. “I wanna suck your cock till you scream.”  
  
Yusuf shudders, suddenly remembering what Eames had said earlier, about letting Robert into his bed, if he couldn’t resist, but to not let Robert into his heart.  
  
 _Well, too late on that count,_  he thinks almost cavalierly.  _Too late to keep Robert out, and even if I could, I’m not sure I would._  
  
“I . . . I’m not averse to that idea. . . .” he tells Robert in a cracking, shaking voice. “Not averse to returning the favor, either.”  
  
Now Robert sits back a little, his eyes somber. “Are you sure? I mean . . . as much as I want you—and I  _do_ , I really, really do—I don’t want to pressure you into something you’re not ready for.”  
  
Yusuf, who hasn’t had the pleasure of sex with another person in two years, laughs shortly. “Robert, let me assure you, I’m ready. And you’re not pressuring me.”  
  
“But—you said  _wait_ —“  
  
“I meant wait till we get some place a little more private. Like my apartment,” Yusuf says, staring boldly, heatedly into Robert’s stunned eyes. “I can give you the truncated tour then we could, I dunno, pick up right where we left off. . . .” Yusuf leans in and licks Robert’s lips before giving him a teasing kiss.  
  
Robert moans and holds Yusuf close and tight. “I’d like that,” he breathes, each word a fleeting kiss. “I’d like that  _very_  much.”  
  
Still feeling bold, Yusuf lets his own hand do some downward sliding, till he’s lightly gripping Robert’s hard-on through slacks that probably cost more than Yusuf’s freshman year of college.  
  
Robert moans again, lifting his pelvis and thrusting twice into Yusuf’s hand. His eyes roll back a little when Yusuf squeezes him.  
  
Feeling rather empowered, Yusuf chuckles, letting go of Robert to zip and button his own fly. “Do come with me, Mr. Fischer,” he invites formally, feeling around behind him for the door handle. Of course, he can’t seem to  _find_  the blasted thing.  
  
Robert grins and leans in to suck a hickey onto Yusuf’s neck. “With you, on you,  _in_  you . . . you just say the word.”  
  
“The word . . . the word, the word, the word. . . .” Yusuf chants as Robert goes to work on another hickey, laughing all the while.  
  
Now, the door handle seems quite unimportant, and the apartment seems entirely too far away—  
  
Suddenly, there’s a knock on the passenger side window. Startled, they look at each other, wide-eyed, then turn to look out the window. A big, shameless grin and a cheerful wave greet them.  
  
"Yusuf, darling! And  _Mr. Fischer_! Fancy running into you two  _here_!"

 

 


	6. 6

“Uh . . . do you know that guy?”  
  
Yusuf looks over at Robert and fights a blush. “Um, yeah . . . he—“  
  
“Wait—doesn’t he work at  _Dude_?” Robert squints out the window at Eames, who’s still waving and grinning. “The English guy who writes that sex advice column?”  
  
“ _Ask Eames_ , and yes.” Yusuf sighs. “This would be Eames.”  
  
“Ah.” Robert looks befuddled for a moment then his face closes off so suddenly, it’s startling. “Should I be jealous?”  
  
Yusuf can only stare for a moment. Then he snorts. “Of  _Eames_? You’re kidding, right?”  
  
That closed-off look doesn’t change one iota and Yusuf sighs again. “No, you don’t. And if you’re going to get jealous over every guy I’m friends with, Robert, then you’re going to wind up being jealous of, like, at least two guys.”  
  
Robert blinks then cracks a smile. Then he chuckles, his eyes warming and his face losing that rigid, unreadable look. When he leans in to kiss Yusuf, it’s long and possessive. The sort of kiss that ends with them both trying to catch their breath and regain their wits.  
  
“I don’t think he’s going to go away,” Robert breathes as Eames starts tapping on the window again. Yusuf, momentarily discombobulated, says: “Who go where?”  
  
“Your friend, Eames.” Robert nods at the window and Yusuf looks back over his shoulder. “He’s pretty persistent.”  
  
“Yes, he certainly is,” Yusuf says flatly, glaring out the window. Eames merely grins bigger and waves again, gesturing for Yusuf to roll down the window. “And you’re right. He’s not going anywhere till he’s had his say.”  
  
“I thought not.” Robert is the one to sigh, this time then he sits up straight in his seat. His arm, however, doesn’t relinquish the back of the passenger side seat.  
  
“Mood? Effectively ruined,” Yusuf mutters, fumbling at the little control panel set in the door before finding the power window button.  
  
When the window slides smoothly down, Eames puts his hand on his hips and rocks back and forth a little.  
  
“Hullo, darling,” he says brightly, leaning down to look into the car, his eyes seeking and almost immediately finding Robert’s. “Mr. Fischer.”  
  
“Mr. Eames.” Robert says rather dryly, his face gone unreadable again. “Fancy meeting you, here, too.”  
  
“Well, Yusuf’s a mate of mine, and I just wanted to check in on him.  _Touch base_  as you Americans like to say.” Eames laughs, a rich, low party-laugh in which neither Yusuf nor Robert join him.  
  
In fact, when all they do is stare at him—Yusuf pleading with his eyes for Eames to take the hint and make himself scarce—Eames laughs again, a bit uncomfortably, this time, and leans on the roof of the Phantom. He peers intently into the car, cataloguing the interior.  
  
“Bloody gorgeous automobile,” he notes, and Robert nods.  
  
“Thanks.”  
  
And there the conversation falls flat.  
  
After exactly twenty-seven seconds of awkward silence, Yusuf finally groans and cuts to the chase. “Eames,  _why_  are you here?”  
  
The used car-salesman smile greets Yusuf. “Why, to check in on you, as I’ve said. What else are friends for?”  
  
“Cock-blocking, apparently,” Robert says ruefully, under his breath, and they both look at him, both in surprise. Robert gazes back, unruffled. “What? Clearly that’s your intention, right?”  
  
“Well—“ Eames clears his throat, but doesn’t bother lying.  
  
“So, the question becomes:  _Why_ , exactly, are you cock-blocking Yusuf—not to mention me.” Robert’s head tilts in seemingly mild curiosity, but his eyes are hard. “Feel free to explain at any moment.”  
  
Eames looks absolutely gobsmacked, an expression Yusuf has never and never thought he’d see on that knowing, self-assured face. But the expression clears quickly enough, leaving behind a grim, determined look in its wake.  
  
“Honestly, Mr. Fischer?” Eames quirks an eyebrow. “I’m here to make certain my good friend here doesn’t make a terrible mistake.”  
  
Robert raises an eyebrow, himself. “And what mistake would that be?”  
  
“Fucking you, of course.” Eames says mildly, and it’s a startling enough admission that Robert’s and Yusuf’s mouth drops open. “See, Yusuf is quite a wonderful person. Anyone would be lucky to have him in their life in any capacity, and that’s something I’m not certain you realize—”  
  
“Don’t tell me what I don’t realize, Mr. Eames,” Robert interrupts tersely, his tone arctic, even as his hand, warm and reassuring, comes to rest on Yusuf’s knee. It’s a gesture Eames’s keen eyes don’t miss.  
  
“—and while I’m sure you’re attracted to him, and maybe even finding yourself growing fond of him, there’s still the matter of your unfortunate track record to keep in the forefront of one’s mind.” Eames says, his voice turning as hard as Robert’s stony gaze. “You see, Yusuf isn’t anything like your usual type. He’s smart, funny, and  _genuine_. He has a heart and it’s no doubt discarded all attempts at self-preservation while staring into your big blue eyes.”  
  
“Eames!” Yusuf exclaims, his face aflame. He starts to roll up the window, but Robert stays his hand.  
  
“No,” he says quietly, angrily. “Let him keep digging his own grave with his mouth.”  
  
“Robert,  _no_ —Eames, please don’t say whatever you’re going to say next. I’m begging you. I’m an adult and I can look after my own heart.” Yusuf says defensively, his finger still hovering near the button to close the window.  
  
“Is that so?” Eames’s gaze gentles as he looks at Yusuf. “Darling, don’t tell me you’re not already half in love with him.”  
  
And here Yusuf had thought he couldn’t possibly turn any redder. “I—I—“  
  
“What Yusuf and I may or may not feel for one another is none of your business.” Robert comes to Yusuf’s rescue, his hand coming back to rest on Yusuf’s knee.  
  
“But I’ve made it my business, mate.” Eames says, his voice gone hard again. “I don’t want to see my friend get his heart broken just so you can have another notch on your very tasteful belt.”  
  
Robert snorts. “It seems to me for all I don’t know how wonderful Yusuf is,  _you’re_  the one who doesn’t have any faith in his ability to not only attract a man’s interest, but to keep it,” he says, sneering. Hectic roses bloom in Eames’s cheeks.  
  
“No, I just haven’t any faith that you aren’t a heartless, philandering bastard.”  
  
“ _EAMES_!” Yusuf yells, burying his face in his hands. “Oh, God, please  _shut up!_ ”  
  
“Or are you just pissed off that I got there first?” Robert demands, and Yusuf looks up and over at him, mouth dropping open in shock and offense.  
  
“I beg your pardon? Got  _where_ , exactly?” he asks with stilted politeness, and Robert blushes, looking uncertain and darting his eyes everywhere but at Yusuf.  
  
“Uh—“ he says, then loosens his already loose tie even further. “What I meant was—“  
  
“Yes, what  _did_  you mean, Mr. Fischer?” Eames asks sweetly. Yusuf throws a quick glare at him then turns back to Robert.  
  
“I just  _meant_ —“ Robert restates, but Yusuf’s too angry, all of a sudden, to let him finish.  
  
“I  _know_  what you meant, Robert. You mean that even after what I told you, you’re still jealous!” Yusuf laughs mirthlessly. “What—now you think I’m a liar—or that I’m that fickle?”  
  
“No, it’s not  _that_ —I just—“ Robert stammers, looking quite miserable, even as he finds the courage to meet Yusuf’s eyes. “This all came out the wrong way—“  
  
“I’ll say it di—hang on, a moment—you’re jealous of  _me_?” Eames asks, looking surprised. “Why on Earth would  _you_  be jealous of  _me_?”  
  
“Oh, please!” Robert snorts disdainfully. “I’m not jealous of  _you_!”  
  
“That’s right, Eames, he just thinks that if you took it into your head to chase after me, I’d just roll over and let you fuck me, isn’t that right, Robert?” Yusuf demands, scowling at Robert, who seems to shrink just a bit, wincing under Yusuf’s angry regard and Eames's smirking enjoyment.  
  
“Darling, have  _you_  got the plot twisted,” he says to Robert, laughing. “My heart’s already spoken for.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, it’s not your  _heart_  I’m worried about,” Robert huffs, crossing his arms like a tantrum-y child. “You strike me as the type who can’t keep it in his pants to save his life.”  
  
Eames’s mouth drops open. “Well! I never—Yusuf, what on  _Earth_  do you see in this rude, pompous prick?”  
  
“ _You’re_  calling  _me_  pompous? That’s rich!”  
  
“Well, you’d know all about ‘rich,’ wouldn’t you? And damn little about anything else!”  
  
Robert rolls his eyes. “Thus speaks the righteous voice of the proletariat . . . how much do you make per year, again?”  
  
“Oh, a little less than what you spent tonight trying to impress Yusuf, I’d wager.” Eames retorts, which no doubt touches close to home for Robert, who’d not half an hour ago tipped a valet one thousand dollars.  
  
“Our date is none of your business!” he huffs.  
  
“And as I said before, I’m making it my business. And so help me, if you break Yusuf’s heart in the slightest, I’ll hunt you down and beat you to death with a shovel!”  
  
Rolling his eyes again, Robert shakes his head. “Now, you’re giving me the Shovel Speech? Unbelievable! It sounds like a Watcher, but it talks like a Scoob!” he says in a falsely fascinated aside to no one in particular.  
  
Eames gazes at Robert blankly. “What in the bloody hell are you on about, mate?”  
  
“Oh, gee, Spike, I dunno.” Robert starts snickering—rather meanly—and the image of a child having a tantrum is further reinforced in Yusuf’s mind.  
  
And Eames is hardly behaving any better, letting himself be baited, and baiting in turn.  
  
Yusuf listens to them bicker for a minute—Robert throwing out Buffy-isms and Eames unwittingly throwing out Spike- and Giles-isms in response—until it feels as if his head’s going to explode. . . .  
  
“ _SHUT UP!_ ” he yells, and for a wonder, they both do. But Yusuf can’t seem to stop telling them to shut up, anyway. “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”  
  
And in the silence that follows, all that can be heard is Yusuf fumbling about the passenger side door control panel, once more. In a few seconds, the door is swinging open, causing Eames to jump back and Robert to reach out and grab Yusuf’s arm.  
  
“Wait, Yusuf—“  
  
“Bloody  _hell_ , Yusuf, what’s got into you?”  
  
But Yusuf shakes his head and snatches his arm back, sliding out of the Phantom. “Thank you for a lovely evening, Robert. Good night, Eames.”  
  
And with that, he shoulders past Eames, up to the front steps of his apartment building.  
  
Once inside the vestibule, he leans on the door, trying to decide whether he’s upset or not that neither best friend nor not-quite-lover had come after him.  
  


*

  
  
Twenty minutes later, dressed in his bedclothes of pajama bottoms and hole-y Dreamtheater t-shirt, Yusuf’s comfortable on his couch, nursing a Pibb Xtra, and watching a rerun of  _The New Adventures of Old Christine_ , when the intercom buzzer goes off.  
  
And goes off.  
  
And just to be extra awesome, goes off some more.  
  
After ten minutes, Yusuf’s ready to tear his hair out. Ignoring the damn thing is no longer an option, since he can barely make out what the hell’s going on on his show over its insistent drone. And cranking up the volume on the television at this hour would just be inconsiderate to his neighbors. Maybe even as inconsiderate as leaning on someone’s buzzer at eleven-thirty at night.  
  
Finally, Yusuf puts down his soda, turns off the television, and shuffles to the door. After a few moments of hesitation—he’s not certain whether he wants it to be Robert, Eames, or just some random prank by bored, unsupervised teenagers—he pushes the button: “Yes?”  
  
“Yusuf, mate!”  
  
Eames, it is, then.  
  
Swallowing his disappointment, Yusuf heaves a sigh and pushes the button again. “It’s late, Eames. You can finish telling me you told me so, or whatever it is you want to say tomorrow morning, after ten, over the phone.”  
  
“But you never check your phone, do you, darling?” Eames’s tinny, accusing voice sizzles out of the speaker like sexy bacon. “If you did, you’d know why I initially dropped by to see you.”  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes. “If this is about Robert—“  
  
“Oh, not  _everything_  is about Robert, love, despite what the both of you like to think.” Eames laughs. “Listen, check your phone, and then you can decide whether to let me in.”  
  
“Eames. . . .”  
  
“I’m willing to wait here all night, Yusuf. I have to talk to  _someone_  about what’s happened.”  
  
“ _What_ ’s happened, Eames?” Yusuf asks, a twinge of worry coloring his lingering irritation. “Is everything alright?”  
  
No answer.  
  
“Eames?”  
  
Still no answer.  
  
“Goddamnit, Eames!”  
  
Grumbling about annoying Englishmen, Yusuf shuffles off to his bedroom. Sitting on his dresser is his cellphone—which he should’ve plugged in to the charger as soon as he got home—and he picks it up.  
  
And it’s true, he doesn’t check his voicemail or texts like he should, often not receiving messages for days after they were sent. He’s been getting better about it, but apparently not fast enough. According to the phone, Eames has been trying to reach him since eight twenty-eight p.m.  
  
There are three voicemails and about five thousand text messages, but it’s the first text message that has Yusuf rushing back to the door, Robert forgotten for the moment.  
  
He pushes the intercom button:   
  
“You slept with Arthur?!”  
  
No answer.  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes again. “I’m buzzing you up.”  
  
“Right-o.”  
  
Yusuf holds the buzzer for ten seconds then opens his door. He can hear Eames making his leisurely way up the three flights of stairs, whistling jauntily. Yusuf leans against the door frame, crosses his arms, and waits.  
  
Soon enough, Eames is stepping onto the landing, grinning the wistful, contented grin of the come-stupid.  
  
“Well, hell,” Yusuf says wonderingly. “You really  _did_  sleep with Arthur.”  
  
That grin widens. “There was no  _sleep_  involved, mate.” Edging past Yusuf into the apartment, Eames immediately heads toward the kitchenette and the fridge like he’s been to Yusuf’s apartment a thousand times before. “Please tell me you have some sort of spirits available. I need some hair of the dog to stave off an epic hangover.”  
  
Closing his door and locking it, Yusuf sighs. “Cabinet over the fridge. I’ve got some Bacardi 151.”  
  
Eames glances over at Yusuf and makes a face. “Love, that’s not spirits. That’s bloody rocketship fuel!”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Yusuf shuffles back to his couch and sits down. “Beggars can’t be choosers, Eames. It’s the 151 or Zima.”  
  
“Augh!” Eames makes a disturbingly realistic gagging sound. “151, it is. Glasses—?”  
  
“Cabinet above the sink.” Yusuf swings his legs up onto the couch and lays down. “Now stop stalling. What’s all this about you and Arthur making the beast with two backs?”  
  
“All in due time, Dearest Yusuf, all in due time.” Eames slops generous amounts of on 151 in two glasses, caps the bottle then brings it and the glasses into Yusuf’s livingroom. He carefully places the whole kit and caboodle on the coffee table then parks himself at the other end of the couch, completely disregarding Yusuf’s feet.  
  
“Jerk,” Yusuf mutters, pulling his feet out from under Eames’s ass and kicking him lightly in the hip for good measure. Eames catches Yusuf’s right foot, pulls it into his lap, and begins massaging it.  
  
“Eames, what on Earth are you—holy mother of  _God_  . . . where did you  _learn_  this?” Yusuf moans happily, as tension and vague aches he didn’t even realize he had, in both calve and foot, reach a crescendo before suddenly draining away under Eames’s talented hands.  
  
“One of my previous partners was training to be a reflexologist.” Eames says thoughtfully then laughs. “He used to practice on me all the time. I guess some of it stuck.”  
  
“Bless him, then.”  
  
Eames laughs again. “Not hardly. I caught him, er,  _practicing reflexology_  with one of his female classmates. And in my bed, no less.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyebrows shoot up. “No way.”  
  
“Oh, yes, way. Does it surprise you that the great repository of sexual knowledge lost his boyfriend to a tawdry, sexual infidelity?”  
  
“Not hardly. Some men are just born to be unfaithful, I suppose,” Yusuf says, rather glumly, wondering if Robert is one of those guys. Maybe that's why he seems to think Yusuf is. “I mean, no matter how faithful they mean to be, some guys are just . . . incapable of being with just one person, right?”  
  
Eames makes a noise that could be agreement.  
  
“Anyway, he was a fool to cheat, and you’re well rid of him,” Yusuf declares, feeling a small stab of anger and defensiveness on behalf of the man who, in retrospect, has been the closest friend he’s ever had. “Men. Can't live with them, can't live without them. Though Lord knows I've tried. And failed.”  
  
“Amen, sister.”  
  
He and Yusuf glance at each other then grin. Then they start laughing. Yusuf’s laugh, however, turns into a relieved groan as Eames switches feet.  
  
“Good God, but you’re tense tonight,” he notes kindly. “Not that I blame you, what with Robert Fischer tugging you in one direction—“  
  
“Actually, the tugging had barely started before you interrupted,” Yusuf says, letting his head sink into a cushion and closing his eyes. He throws one arm over his eyes and sighs.  
  
“—and me coming along and trying to tug you in another,” Eames finishes. “I apologize for that, by the way.”  
  
When Yusuf peaks out from under his arm, Eames is looking at him solemnly. “Oh, yes. Unlike some billionaires who shall remain nameless, I can admit when I’m being a complete wanker.  
  
“And I  _was_  being a wanker. But from the moment he pulled up and grew those octopus arms, I saw red. And not, as he insinuated, because I want you for myself. But because I care about you, and I don’t want to see you lose your heart to someone who won’t take care of it.”  
  
“Eames—“ Yusuf covers his eyes again. “You’re the one who  _told me_  to sleep with him if I couldn’t resist!”  
  
“And I was  _wrong_  to tell you that, Yusuf,” Eames says with a heavy sigh. “To some, sex means little more than getting off, but you’re not one of those people, are you? You can’t screw around without getting emotionally involved, can you?”  
  
“Who says I can’t?”  
  
“Alright, then, when was the last time you had sex, and were you in a steady relationship when it happened?”  
  
Yusuf peeks out again. But now, Eames is staring at Yusuf’s foot, smiling that infuriating, knowing smile.  
  
“That’s none of your business.”  
  
“Which is all the answer I need,” Eames goes on cheerfully. “And all the reasons why I was afraid of what would happen if you slept with Robert Fischer.”  
  
Yusuf frowns. “ _Was_  afraid?”  
  
“Well.” Eames looks at Yusuf again, and his smile turns a bit rueful. “Would it surprise you to know I’ve had something of a change of heart?”  
  
“About Robert? Yes. I might just have a stroke.” But glibness aside, Yusuf sits up a little on one elbow. “Have you really?”  
  
Eames nods reluctantly, then adds: “Not completely, mind you. But I’m finding it hard to believe that any man who gets that jealous over who you’re fucking wants just a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am. Though that kind of possessiveness so early in whatever his idea of a relationship is, is . . . worrying.”  
  
Yusuf smiles a little. “I dunno . . . it's kind of flattering. Heh, he even got jealous when I told him about my childhood crush on Doogie Howser.”  
  
“Who?”  
  
Laughing, Yusuf shakes his head. “No one. You were saying?”  
  
With one last squeeze, Eames lets go of Yusuf’s foot. “I was saying that maybe he’s so jealous and possessive because he’s never had a real relationship before. Or the potential for one. And he just doesn’t know how to trust it or you or the fact that if you didn’t want him, you wouldn’t be wasting your time stringing him along,” he muses, leaning forward to snag the glasses, one of which he passes to Yusuf, who takes it hesitantly, then throws caution to the wind. It’s not like he has to go to work in the morning. “You realize that I’m probably right, right? That dating this man is going to be like dating a teenager, in some ways. He’s going to make a lot of mistakes, some of them extremely hurtful. To the point that you may wish you’d never got involved with him. He clearly has trust issues and is a notorious control-freak. In short: he’s no Prince Charming. He’s an emotionally stunted man-child who has no idea how to handle falling in love and then simply  _being_  with someone.”  
  
Yusuf sips at his rum, and doesn’t say anything till the generous glass is half empty and his mouth and throat burn. “Don’t you think I’ve realized all that? I may be half in love with the man, as you say, but that doesn’t mean I’m blind. Or that I’m willing to overlook his obvious flaws.”  
  
Now Eames’s gaze turns keen and appraising. “Then what  _does_  it mean?”  
  
“ _I don’t know, okay?_ ” Yusuf blurts out, finishing the rest of his rum in one long, burning swallow. “All I know is it’s barely been one day, and I’m already thinking of my future—my life in terms of  _Robert Fischer_ , and what Robert will think or do. And even though I’ve tried, I can’t stop thinking about him and wanting him. I  _need_  to  _be with him_ , like you said, in every sense of the word, no matter the risk. I’m willing to live dangerously, so to speak, to have a chance with him." Yusuf shakes his head. "You think letting him fuck me will cause me to lose my heart?” He laughs, though it hurts his throat to do so, and makes his next words come out hoarse and pained. “It’s too late for that, Eames, don’t you understand? And even if I could change it . . . I wouldn’t. I’m drowning, and smiling as I go down.”  
  
Eames’s keen look turns almost pitying. “Oh, my poor darling,” he says softly, putting his hand on Yusuf’s knee. “It’ll be alright. It’s clear that he already thinks more of you than he did of Taran Colby—“  
  
“Which isn’t saying much.”  
  
“—or any of the others. Whatever else he wants from you—love, loyalty, complete and utter fealty—he wants what's between you two to  _work_. And while  _want_  means next to nothing when you don’t have the tools needed to  _get_  . . . it still counts for something.” Eames says, trying on a reassuring smile. Yusuf lays back into the cushion and puts his empty glass on the coffee table and his hands on his stomach.  
  
“I don’t even know, anymore,” he says finally. “I mean, I  _know_  what I want: Robert. I know what I have to do to have him: be patient with him and trust him. I know what it could cost me to keep him: my heart, my pride, my self-respect. And I’ve made peace with having to walk that tightrope . . . as much peace as I can. I just . . . he overwhelms me. No matter what emotion he arouses in me, it’s the very Nth of that emotion. He doesn’t make me merely happy. He makes me incandescent with joy. He doesn’t merely make me annoyed. He makes me so angry that I have to get away from him before I explode. He doesn’t just make me horny. He makes me  _ache_ with wanting him, even though I know having him will only make the wanting worse. He. . . .”  
  
“Overwhelms you,” Eames finishes for him, and Yusuf nods ruefully.  
  
“I think . . . I think it’s a good thing you came along when you did, Eames. Everything was moving so fast, and . . . maybe he and I just need to take things slow for now.” Yusuf sighs, shaking his head. “Not that it'll make a difference.”  
  
Eames shrugs. “It might not. But it’s worth a shot.”  
  
"The problem is, when I'm around him . . . when he touches me . . . God, I've  _never_  wanted anyone so much." Yusuf sighs and hugs himself. "It's a little scary to want someone so badly."  
  
"Love, if that's what this turns out to be, is a very scary prospect. Wonderful, but terrible, too." Eames pats Yusuf's knee kindly. "It co-opts one's heart, mind, and soul. One finds oneself living and breathing for someone else, until there's no 'me' anymore, just 'we' . . . it's quite ghastly."  
  
"Yeah," Yusuf agrees, smiling a little, without realizing it.  
  
They sit and lay in silence, respectively, Yusuf staring up at the ceiling, Eames polishing off his glassful and pouring another.  
  
“Take my mind off of Robert. Tell me about you and Arthur,” Yusuf says absently. Eames snorts.  
  
“What’s to tell, in light of  _your_  intense, whirlwind of a romance?"   
  
Now Yusuf snorts. "At least you got laid. Was it everything you thought it'd be?"  
  
"Mm. And more. He's hung like a bloody mule. Hurts every bloody step I take," Eames says smugly. Yusuf chuckles.  
  
"Size queen."  
  
Eames rolls his eyes. "Well,  _yes_. But Arthur not only has the size, but he has the talent to use it. He wields that thing  _masterfully_. Like it's bloody Excalibur."  
  
" _Nice_." Yusuf wonders briefly if Robert's hung like a mule. Though he's no size queen, like Eames is, he does tend to prefer guys with girth, more so than length. And from his brief foray below Robert's belt, Yusuf has a feeling that he's going to be pleasantly surprised. "So is this Conor Eames's Big Happily Ever After?"  
  
Eames shrugs again, looking broody for a moment. "Dunno, you tell me? I mean, it was just one night. One amazing, perfect fuck . . . well, several, actually. For all I know, Arthur's the king of such one night stands."  
  
"Doubtful," Yusuf says thoughtfully. "He doesn't strike me as the sort to sport-fuck a guy then run. Whether he was drunk or not."  
  
"Let's hope so," Eames sighs, knocking back his rum.  
  
"Why don't you start from the beginning? How does someone, even  _you_ , go from obsessing in secret over shy, retiring, reclusive Arthur, to getting the Excalibur treatment from him?" Yusuf asks curiously. Eames looks sheepish for a moment, then squares his shoulders.  
  
"Alcohol may have been involved. . . ."  
  
"I'm not surprised."  
  
"Listen, you, a drunk man speaks a sober man's mind."  
  
"And apparently gets into other drunk men's pants." Yusuf grins. "Anyway, start from the beginning, and don't leave anything out."  
  
"It shall be as my lord commands." Eames salutes Yusuf smartly, though his cheeks are faintly red. "Well, I was knocking off work a bit early today, when I caught Arthur doing the same. We literally ran into each other at the lift—“  
  
“And had sex on the way to the lobby?”  
  
“Who’s telling this story?” Eames asks sternly. Holding back a laugh, Yusuf sweeps out his hand in a grand gesture for Eames to continue.  
  
“Right, then. So, we get to the lobby, neither of us saying so much as a word to each other. But as he steps out, I somehow grew a great, hairy pair of bollocks because I went after him and asked him if he’d like to join me for a quick scotch and soda at  _O’Flaherty’s_. . . .”  
  


*

  
  
By the time Eames finishes regaling Yusuf with tales of his and Arthur’s sexploits—and Yusuf’s still not certain, by the end, how they got from “a quick scotch and soda,” to “making the skies fall” in Eames’s condo—it’s nearly two a.m. A fact which is only brought to Yusuf’s attention when a thoroughly snockered Eames glances at his watch and swears.  
  
“Well, not that it hasn’t been absolutely lovely chatting with you, darling, but Arthur may be awake and ready for round four,” he says, standing up unsteadily. “Whoa!”  
  
Yusuf—his mind still partially on all the sexploits (and imagining that’s it’s himself and Robert, rather than Eames and Arthur)—jumps up to take Eames’s elbow. “Are you alright? Shall I call you cab?"  
  
Eames appears to give it great consideration. Then giggles, laying his head on Yusuf's shoulder. “Yes. Especially since that’s how I arrived here, and I’m in no state to be walking two miles home.” His breath puffs moist and warm on Yusuf's neck.  
  
And so, rolling his eyes yet once more, Yusuf helps Eames sit down again, and goes on the hunt for his phone book.  
  
Fifteen minutes later, one arm around Eames's waist, the other bearing their weight up on the banister, he’s helping Eames downstairs, one careful step at a time. Eames, for his drunken part, has one arm slung around Yusuf's neck and is gesturing wildly with the other as he talks about God-only-knows what.  
  
They make it to the lobby without either of them breaking their necks—though it was a close thing several times—and Yusuf steers Eames to the front door. Double-parked out front is a yellow Crown Victoria with the logo:  **CITY TAXI**.  
  
“Let’s hope the night air sobers you up some,” Yusuf says optimistically, grunting as Eames leans heavily against him. Yusuf somehow navigates their way out the door, into the cool night, and down the front steps (Yusuf’s eyes are on their feet all the way, and he sends up a prayer of thanks when they reach the sidewalk without incident).  
  
“[Western wind, when wilt thou blow, that the small rain down can rain? Christ, that my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!](http://www.oysterboyreview.org/archived/16/poetry/EfronM-OWesternWind.html)” Eames intones loudly as Yusuf tugs him toward the cab. It’s a bitch getting the back door open and keeping Eames from wandering off. But he does it.  
  
“Don’t worry, soon you’ll have both love and bed. Just—be a darling for Yusuf and  _get in the cab_.”  
  
“Can’t go in to work like this, Yusuf . . . just can’t,” Eames mutters sadly, and Yusuf puts a hand on his head and tries to shove him bodily into the cab. "Yusuf! I'll be bloody sacked!"  
  
“But you’re not going to work, Eames, remember? You’re going home to Arthur, isn’t that right?”  
  
Eames’s bleary eyes light up and he stops struggling, sliding into the cab with the loose-limbed flexibility of the  _very_  drunk. He actually winds up on his back, with his legs hanging out of the door. “Arthur! My darling!”  
  
“Yes, that’s right: Arthur.” Yusuf leans in and helps Eames right himself. It’s a two man job, and with Eames drunk beyond usefulness, they’re a man short. “Now, give the nice driver your address so he can get you to Arthur as soon as possible.”  
  
“Grand idea!” Eames leans forward to puff in the rather alarmed driver’s ear. “Arthur’s my lover. We made the skies fall tonight.”  
  
“Uh—“ the driver—Anthony Chen, per his medallion—says, and Yusuf laughs, loud and fake.  
  
“Oh, never mind him, he’s just a little tipsy. But here’s a twenty—“ Yusuf waves a twenty dollar bill at Mr. Chen, who seems to seriously consider turning it down, before taking it. “Keep the change, and just get my friend home in one piece.”  
  
"Yeah . . . okay." Mr. Chen shrugs with the sudden zen of a long-time cabdriver. He reminds Yusuf more than a little of Ariadne.  
  
“583 South 23rd Street!” Eames suddenly exclaims, startling both Yusuf and the driver.  
  
In fact Mr. Chen looks like he’s about to hand back the twenty and say  _fuck that_.  
  
“Well, you heard the man!” Yusuf says quickly, before Mr. Chen can say anything or change his mind. “G’night, Eames!”  
  
“G’bye, Yu—“ Yusuf slams the door shut before Eames can finish. He backs up to the stoop, waving, and smiling a big, phony smile.  
  
A minute later, the cab takes off, Eames leaning out the window to yell: “Byeeeeeeeeeeeee!”  
  
When the cab turns at the corner, Yusuf heaves a sigh and is about to turn and go inside, when he notices  _it_  across the street. He hadn’t noticed  _it_  before, preoccupied as he was with Eames not breaking both their necks. And he certainly hadn’t noticed  _it_  while fighting to get Eames in the cab. But now, with Eames and cab both out of sight, he couldn’t miss  _it_  if he tried.  
  
The Phantom.  
  
Parked across the street, with its driver leaning against the driver side door, arms crossed, face unreadable. Managing to look damn near immaculate in his fitted, dark-blue suit and re-knotted tie.  
  
Even his hair is fucking  _perfect_.  
  
Yusuf almost takes a step forward, but stops himself. He crosses his own arms and tries to look unreadable, too. But dressed, as he is, only in his pajama bottoms, a t-shirt, and flip-flops, he just feels ridiculous.  
  
“You came back,” he says, just loud enough to carry, and that unreadable façade cracks enough to let out a wry smile.  
  
“I never left,” Robert says, and Yusuf can’t stop his eyes from widening just a tad.  
  
“You’re saying you’ve been out here for the past—nearly three hours?”  
  
Robert shrugs, his smile fading. “It felt like we had unfinished business.”  
  
“And what business would that be?”  
  
Robert straightens up and crosses the street slowly. By the time he’s reached the sidewalk, Yusuf’s already backed up the stairs. When his ass hits the front door, Robert’s foot hits the first step and he ascends determinedly.  
  
Yusuf—the keys in his left pocket quite forgotten—briefly considers jumping over the railing and running off down the street.  
  
 _But where to?_  he thinks helplessly as Robert reaches the top step and pauses.  
  
He searches Yusuf’s eyes for what feels like days, his own solemn and intent . . . then he’s crossing the landing, closing the brief distance between himself and Yusuf. Each step makes Yusuf’s heart beat faster, till he can’t hear the other sounds of the night over it.  
  
Then Robert’s right in front of him, scant inches separating them.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “About what I said, about being jealous of that Eames guy, and trying to lord our . . . relationship, such as it is, over him. And I’m especially sorry that I didn’t think enough of you to believe you when you said there was no one for me to be jealous over.”  
  
Yusuf’s crossed arms turn into a quick embrace of himself before falling to his sides. He wants to embrace  _Robert_ , but doesn't think he should. Not yet. “Seriously, tell me now: are you going to be like that with every guy I know?”  
  
That wry smile makes a slight reappearance. “Probably . . . at least if I don’t train myself out of the habit.”  
  
“Robert, I’m being serious!”  
  
“So’m I.” Robert looks down for a moment. “It’s the kind of thing only time is gonna take care of, Yusuf. Eventually I’ll get it through my thick skull that even though you  _could_  run away from me, screaming, you probably won’t, provided I keep my worst instincts under some kind of control. I mean, notice I didn’t run over here demanding to know why Mr. Eames was in your apartment for so long.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes narrow. “And it’s a good thing for you that you didn’t, because it had nothing to do with you, and as such, is none of your business.”  
  
Robert holds up his hands placatingly. “I know, I know. Believe me, I know. You said you’re not interested in him, romanctically, and I believe you.”  
  
“Well . . . good.”  
  
Robert nods and shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking from heel to toe, and back again, just as Eames had done earlier in the evening.  
  
He looks like a man who doesn’t want to leave, but thinks he should anyway.  
  
This opinion is borne out by Robert’s next words: “Anyway, it’s late, and I should probably go. . . .”  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes—neither for the first nor the last time where Robert Fischer is concerned—but can’t help smiling. Before Robert can turn away, Yusuf reaches out and grabs his lapels, pulling him close.  
  
“It  _is_  late, but I think you should stay,” Yusuf says, staring into blue, blue eyes so close to his own. Once more he throws caution to the wind and goes with his gut. “Stay, Robert.”  
  
Robert blinks. “Um, are you sure? I mean, I understand if you want me to go—“  
  
Yusuf cuts Robert off by the simple expedient of kissing him lightly.  
  
“ _Stay_ ,” he murmurs for the third time, and Robert moans a little.  
  
“Yeah . . . I could do that,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss Yusuf, his hands immediately going to Yusuf’s hips to hold him steady. Yusuf’s arms wind around Robert’s neck, and shortly thereafter the kiss becomes a clinch, with Yusuf scritching his fingers through the hair on Robert’s nape, and Robert’s hands sliding around to the back of Yusuf’s pajama bottoms.  
  
Yusuf’s breath catches when Robert’s hands dip under the slightly sprung waistband, and palm the cheeks of his ass—gently, at first, then with increasing urgency and possessiveness. His hands are large, warm, and welcome on Yusuf’s night-cooled skin.  
  
“ _Oh_ ,” Yusuf sighs happily when Robert turns his attention to neck and throat, and the leaving of hickeys. “I n-never did take you on that t-tour of my place. . . .”  
  
“Mm, I  _do_  recall you mentioning a tour.” Robert walks them back a bit, till Yusuf’s pressed against the door and Robert's pressed against Yusuf. They’re both hard and getting harder with each shared breath.  
  
Yusuf leans his head back against the door and stares unseeingly up into the night as Robert kisses his throat and murmurs sweet, dirty nothings:  _I wanna be inside you so bad,_  and  _I'll bet you're hot like a furnace and so_  tight, and  _gonna make you come till you pass out_.  
  
And so on.  
  
 _This_ is _my life. This_ is _my life,_  Yusuf tells himself, and still doesn’t quite believe it. Not even when Robert kisses him again, the sort of tantalizing, teasing, lingering kiss that hints at so much more to come.  
  
It ends with a chuckle from Robert, and a controlled squeeze of Yusuf’s hips before those wonderful hands leave his pajama bottoms altogether.  
  
“Let’s take this tour inside, shall we?”  
  
Yusuf exhales heavily, torn between climbing three flights of stairs to his warm bed, or humping out on his front stoop like a dog in heat.  
  
Then he remembers that inside—in his night table, specifically—is where the lube and the condoms are. Suddenly, the choice is crystal clear, and he chuckles, too, digging in his pocket for his remembered keys.  
  
“We shall,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle Robert’s cheek, before turning to the door. Robert immediately plasters himself against Yusuf’s back, arms around Yusuf's waist, his erection poking insistently against Yusuf’s ass. Yusuf chuckles again, somewhat breathlessly, and somehow manages to unlock and open the door. “Welcome to my humble abode, um . . . sorry, it’s a bit of a climb—I’m on the third floor, and—“  
  
Robert’s hands find Yusuf’s hips again and pull them back  _hard_  at the same time as he pushes his own hips forward. They both hiss at the sensation—undoubtedly more powerful for Yusuf’s, whose pajama bottoms are thinner than Robert’s slacks.  
  
“Does this  _feel_  like I care how many flights of stairs I have to climb to be with you?” Robert whispers roughly, shakily in Yusuf’s ear, undulating his own hips in lazy, but powerful thrusts. “I think I’d climb Everest to be with you, Yusuf.”  
  
Yusuf is flattered, in spite of himself. It makes him feel tender toward Robert, and rather possessive, himself. “Thankfully for us both, you don’t. C’mon; soonest begun is soonest done.”  
  
“I think you’ll shortly be finding out how true that’s  _not_ ,” Robert breathes, his thumbs rubbing the points of Yusuf’s hips.  
  
And with that, without letting go of Yusuf, Robert walks them forward into the vestibule. Once more, Yusuf finds himself trying to get a man safely through three flights of potential death. Unlike Eames, however, Robert is sober. And quite handsy. And quite content, at one point, to make out with and grind against Yusuf on Mrs. Mizlaburski’s door.  
  
And never mind what he tries to do to Yusuf on Mr. Redding’s door.  
  
All told, it takes them more than twenty minutes to get up to the third floor. But when they get there, Robert seems to come to his senses. He doesn’t let go of Yusuf, but neither does he interfere with Yusuf trying to get them to his door. Or trying to open it. Which seems to take for-fucking- _ever_ , with Robert pressed against him, hard in all the right places. . . .  
  
“Well . . . this is me!” Yusuf says brightly, breathlessly, stepping in with Robert, whose arms are wrapped around his waist once more. One hand disappears briefly as Robert nudges the door shut behind them, and even engages the lock. Then he’s embracing Yusuf again and kissing the back of his neck. Something that makes it difficult for Yusuf to remember his duties as a host. “That’s, uh, the kitchenette over there, we’re s-standing in the livingroom. The bathroom is—“  
  
But Robert clearly isn’t listening. What he  _is_  doing is letting go of Yusuf and stepping around him. He takes a quick, disinterested glance around the apartment, then turns to Yusuf and pushes him up against the door, pinning his arms and looking into his eyes. His own are flame-blue and heated. “Would you mind terribly if I didn’t care, at the moment?”   
  
“Um . . . no?”  
  
“Good.” Robert slithers slowly, smirkingly, to his knees, his hands sliding down Yusuf’s body leaving tingling trails of pleasure in their wake.  
  
Not once does he break eye contact, nor does he allow Yusuf to do so.  
  
Yusuf moans, the back of his head hitting the door. His eyes finally fall shut as Robert nuzzles his cock through cloth then pulls down Yusuf’s pajama bottoms . . . with his teeth.  
  
 _Okay, this_ is _my life . . . but_ how _is it my life? How am I this luck—oh,_ God!  
  
For a while, there's no more thinking.


	7. 7

“You awake?”  
  
This is kissed into the skin of Yusuf’s nape, and he smiles sleepily, blinking in the dim, late morning sunlight. “No, but I could be persuaded.”  
  
Robert’s low chuckle vibrates against his skin as it travels down and around to his shoulder, where it turns into a gentle love bite. It’s not the first and it will happily not be the last.  
  
A warm, admiring hand caresses its way down Yusuf’s back, to the small, and thence to his ass, where it strokes and strokes. Yusuf sighs and spreads his legs. Robert’s fingers immediately trail down to his opening, circling and feinting inward till Yusuf’s moaning and humping his bed, literally biting his pillow. The irony would not have been lost on him, had he not been so focused on what Robert was doing.  
  
First one finger wriggles its way inside him and he lets out a breath, bearing down on it instantly. “More,” he demands, and Robert chuckles again.  
  
“You’re awful pushy, for a bottom,” Robert leans down to whisper in his ear, as his middle finger joins its brother, scissoring and stretching Yusuf back open. He’s still sore enough that there’s discomfort, but it only adds to the sweet, dirty,  _right_  sensation of being slowly and surely  _filled_.  
  
“I want what I want, when I want it,” he agrees, half purr, half chuckle. “And right now, I want your cock.”  
  
“Fuck,” Robert swears, removing his fingers. Yusuf smiles, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Robert fumbling about on the nightstand for the tube of lube.  
  
And for the empty wrapper of the condoms they’d used up last night.  
  
“Ah,  _fuck_ —“ Robert begins irritably, crumpling the wrapper in frustration. Yusuf reaches out and covers Robert’s pale fist with his hand. Their hands, together, look like an old Beneton ad.  
  
“It’s okay,” he says softly, pushing back against Robert.  
  
“You have more condoms?” Robert asks hopefully, and Yusuf looks over his shoulder, biting his lip. He takes a breath.  
  
“No . . . but it’s okay. If you wanna . . . you know. Bareback.”  
  
Robert’s eyebrows shoot up.  
  
“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I mean—I  _understand_  if you don’t, but if you  _do_ , that’d be, um, cool, too. I’ve only been with one guy, and I’ve been tested since.” Yusuf blushes, but manages not to look away from Robert’s startled gaze. “Or we could do other things—“  
  
Robert leans in to kiss Yusuf hard and quick, his tongue darting into Yusuf’s mouth to count his teeth, then just as quickly withdraw. “I’ve been tested, too, since my last . . . assignation. I’m clean.” Then three cool, gel-sticky fingers brush his entrance teasingly before pushing back in slowly, but implacably. Yusuf hisses in a breath that Robert steals with another kiss.  
  
“Tell me you want my come inside you, Yusuf,” he murmurs, his breathing fast and shaky. “Tell me.”  
  
Blushing harder, Yusuf inhales again. The air smells of sex, sweat, and Robert’s cologne.  _Good_ scents. “ _God_ , yes . . . I w-want you to come inside me, Robert . . .  _please_.”  
  
“Yeah.” Robert pushes Yusuf’s legs further apart, and bends the right one till Yusuf’s knee is practically in his armpit. “Gonna fill you up. Gonna give you everything—gonna make you  _mine_.”  
  
“I’m already yours,” Yusuf whispers, glancing back over his shoulder. He can just make out the look of surprise on Robert’s face, before it’s replaced by bitten-lipped concentration.  
  
Robert prepares Yusuf quickly, with fingers that are shaky and not especially coordinated, murmuring how tight and hot he is all the while. Then, after what feels like forever, he’s guiding his cock forward, pushing insistently against the first ring of muscle. Yusuf relaxes his body and reaches back to put one hand on Robert’s hip.  
  
Robert’s other hand, on Yusuf’s ass, squeezes and clutches, and Robert hisses as he slides slowly forward, inch by inch. When he’s seated completely in Yusuf, he reaches around to take Yusuf’s cock in hand and strokes it gently.  
  
“ _Mine_ ,” he breathes on Yusuf’s nape. “This cock. This ass. So perfect, and so  _mine_.”  
  
“Yours,” Yusuf’s agrees, bringing every muscle possible to bear on the thick, hot cock inside him. “In part and in whole.”  
  
Robert kisses his nape, his neck, his shoulders—any part of Yusuf he can reach. “And I’m yours . . . I’m  _so_  yours.”  
  
Then he starts to move . . . slowly, painstakingly, putting his hips into every thrust and pulling back out just as slowly, moaning at the loss of Yusuf around him, only to seek out his heat again.  
  
His hand on Yusuf’s cock is tight and somehow in exact counterpoint to his thrusts. His thumb sweeps feather-light across the tip, sliding in the precome collected there. Every so often he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean, then tells Yusuf how good he tastes.  
  
A swivel of his hips and he finds Yusuf’s prostate, moaning once more, long and drawn-out, when Yusuf clenches around him and shudders.  
  
“Oh, my love,” Yusuf breathes, and struggles to get to his hands and knees. When he realizes what Yusuf’s trying to do, Robert pulls him up by his hips without separating their bodies. But instead of stopping there, he sits up and settles back on his heels, pulling Yusuf down into his lap. The both groan as Robert sinks even deeper, till it feels as if he’s filling Yusuf’s entire being.  
  
Yusuf straddles Robert’s thighs and leans back in the arms that wrap around his waist.  
  
“Ever done it like this?” Robert asks, pressing his face against Yusuf’s damp shoulder.  
  
“No,” Yusuf exhales, waiting for his body to accommodate Robert more completely. It hurts, but it feels incredible, too. Better than anything that immediately comes to mind. Which isn’t really a lot of things, distracted as Yusuf is. “Just missionary and doggy-style. I never even thought— _oh, God_ —“ he gasps out as Robert bucks up into him hard, nailing his prostate dead-on.  
  
“Gravity’s a wonderful thing. It takes me so—“ kiss “— _so_ —“ nuzzle “ _deep_.” Robert chuckles, bucking up again, his fingers finding Yusuf’s nipples and tweaking them lightly. “When I come, you’re gonna  _feel_  it.”  
  
Yusuf leans his head back on Robert’s shoulder and meets his heated, hungry gaze.  
  
Then Robert smiles and kisses him lingeringly, one hand dropping to Yusuf’s cock again.  
  
“Fuck yourself on me,” he murmurs into the kiss. “Fuck yourself on my cock.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes squinch shut and he nods, trying his best to lever his shaking, sweaty body up off Robert’s cock. He doesn’t get very far before he sits back down again, and they both cry out, sharing breath and kisses.  
  
“Again,” Robert commands, licking Yusuf’s lips and nibbling his way down to Yusuf’s throat. “God, do it again.”  
  
Yusuf does it again, and Robert  _cries out_  again, his hand tightening around Yusuf’s cock.  
  
“Yeah,” he sighs happily, his breath warm and humid on Yusuf’s throat. “Gonna fuck this sweet ass till neither of us can walk right.”  
  
Lost though he is to pleasure, to Robert’s hard, almost sporadic thrusts, Yusuf laughs. “I don’t think I’ll be able to walk, period.”  
  
“Then I guess you’ll have to stay in bed till you recover . . . servicing my cock whenever I get hard . . . which’ll be  _often_ ,” Robert promises darkly.  
  
“So basically I’ll never walk again?”  
  
Robert laughs and thrusts . . . grunts and thrusts again. “Walking is overrated, anyway.”  
  
Yusuf gasps once more, seeing stars and fireworks, as Robert really starts putting his back into it. There’s no more inclination or ability to talk until Yusuf croaks out: “Coming!”  
  
“And I’ll lick every inch of you clean,” Robert murmurs in a tight, controlled voice that indicates he’s not too far off, either.  
  
Seconds later, Yusuf’s body is strung taught, his muscles bearing down so hard on Robert’s cock, Robert swears and stills within him. Then Yusuf’s lost to his orgasm—the best he’s ever had, and not just because it’s the most recent—sobbing Robert’s name as come lands in hot spatters on his chest.  
  
“Oh, baby, so good . . . so fucking— _fuck_ —“ Robert grits out, pulling Yusuf’s hips down hard and thrusting up at the same time. His cock pulses tangibly within Yusuf who, coming down from his orgasm, finds himself on the brink of another. The sensation is so intense it’s nearly painful.  
  
Then Robert’s coming in him:  _hard_ , hot, and a  _lot_. Yusuf feels every pulse, every spurt, every twitch as Robert’s body struggles to come more.  
  
“God, baby,  _yes_ ,” Robert’s moaning hoarsely. “Take it all, all . . . can you feel it?”  
  
“Yes,” Yusuf breathes as his own body struggles to come again. Robert’s still thrusting up into him, still hard, still stroking him. “I need—“  
  
“Tell me what you need, baby.  _Anything_. I’ll give you anything you need.”  
  
Yusuf doesn’t answer.  _Can’t_ , as he pushes himself to his second orgasm, answer. He simply sags forward, barely able to brace himself as he hits the bed. Robert slips out of him, but grabs his hips and pushes him flat to the bed, spreading his legs.  
  
He pushes Yusuf’s cheeks apart, and Yusuf sighs,  _yes_ , as he waits for the powerful thrust of Robert’s cock.  
  
He doesn’t get it.  
  
What he  _does_  get is more than enough, however, to send him over the edge, and he comes again, shouting Robert’s name as Robert’s tongue rasps and laps at his sore, over-sensitized entrance.  
  


*

  
  
“You have the softest hair.”  
  
Yusuf smiles, his head pillowed on Robert’s shoulder while Robert’s fingers card through his hair. “Hmm . . . it’s too curly.”  
  
“It’s  _perfect_ ,” Robert murmurs into his curls. "Perfect, perfect, perfect."  
  
“That’s the post-coital endorphins talking.”  
  
Robert laughs. “You really have no idea how beautiful you are, do you?”  
  
Yusuf looks up at Robert and catches a soft, fond look on his face. “I know you make me  _feel_ beautiful. Does that count?”  
  
That soft smile widens a little. “I want to make you feel as beautiful as you are. It’s the least you deserve.” He searches Yusuf’s eyes for a moment, then leans in to kiss him.  
  
The kiss has turned into a clinch, with Robert’s fingers dancing lightly down Yusuf’s back, toward his ass—though after four times (five for Yusuf) in six hours, neither of them are likely to be getting hard any time soon—when Robert’s phone rings from somewhere in the scattered clothes on the floor.  
  
Robert seems content to ignore it, but Yusuf pulls away reluctantly. “It might be important.”  
  
“Probably,” Robert agrees lowly, huskily. “But I don’t care.”  
  
“You do. You  _will_.” Yusuf smiles apologetically and leans over Robert and over the edge of his double bed. He feels around on the floor till his hand touches a vibrating lump.  
  
“Aha!” He sits up with Robert’s Blackberry, waggling it. Robert rolls his eyes and reaches for it, but Yusuf holds it just out of reach. “What will you give me for it?”  
  
Robert sits up and pulls Yusuf in for hard, biting kiss. “The fucking of your life.”  
  
“Ah, but you already gave me that.”  
  
Robert quirks an eyebrow. “So you’re saying once was enough?”  
  
“Never.”  
  
They grin at each other, and Yusuf hands over the phone. Robert kisses him again, quick and dirty then answers, pulling Yusuf into his arms and laying them back down. “Fischer. Make it good.”  
  
“You’re so butch,” Yusuf whispers, leaning in to lick a trail from Robert’s nipple to his ear lobe. Robert shivers and clears his throat.  
  
“ . . . off the table . . . yes, I know we were close to a deal, but I’ve changed my mind. It’s been known to happen . . . well, it’s not like we need the money, Uncle Peter . . . yeah, well, it was one of dad’s first publishing successes, so I think it’s worth sav— _no_ , I don’t care what Saito expects. Saito can go fuck himself if he doesn’t like it. . . .”  
  
Intent as he is on mapping the shell of Robert’s ear with his tongue, the import of Robert’s end of the conversation doesn’t compute. At first. But when it does, he looks up at Robert solemnly, studying his face.  
  
Robert watches him back, just as solemnly.  
  
“ _Dude_  isn’t for sale,” he says finally. “Dad was about as sentimental as a crocodile, but when he loved something, well . . . he really loved it.” Robert swallows, and looks away, his eyes melancholy. “And he loved  _Dude_ , so. . . .  
  
“There’s no changing my mind on this, Uncle Peter.  _Dude_  will remain a part of Fischer-Morrow Publishing. End of story. If Saito has a problem with that, we can—ah, fuck, can I call you back in a little bit? Bye.” Robert hangs up withhout waiting for an answer from his uncle.  
  
Yusuf’s getting out of bed, looking for his pajama bottoms.  
  
Robert gets up, too, and watches Yusuf get partially dressed.  
  
“Well, I  _thought_  you’d be  _happy_ ,” he says sarcastically. Yusuf snorts.  
  
“I’m ecstatic, Robert.” He pulls the drawstring on his pants and crosses his arms. “You magically decide to keep  _Dude_  after I  _sleep with you_? What the hell?”  
  
Robert looks genuinely surprised for a moment. Then his eyes narrow and his face transforms into that cold mask.  
  
“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”  
  
Stung, Yusuf takes a step back and Robert’s mask cracks a little. Then crumbles. “Jesus, Yusuf, I didn’t mean it like that—“  
  
“Then what  _did_  you mean, Robert?” Yusuf demands, turning away, ostensibly to look for his shirt. He spots it where he remembers Robert flinging it earlier, on his laptop. He snags it and pulls it on. Feeling somewhat less vulnerable, he turns to face Robert again. “What, if not that I’m bad in bed?”  
  
Robert, standing there naked, covered in hickies and scratches, looks ridiculous . . . and repentant.  
  
“I shouldn’t have said that—not just because it was insulting, but because it wasn’t  _true_. After today, I’d buy shares of Enron, if you wanted me to . . . it was that good. But that’s not why I kept  _Dude_ ,” he says quietly.  
  
Yusuf crosses his arms again and sighs. “I’m listening.”  
  
For a moment, Robert gets that high-handed look on his face . . . but then he smiles wryly and sits on the foot of Yusuf’s bed. He pats the spot next to him and Yusuf, arms still crossed, reluctantly drifts over to sit next to him, just shy of touching him.  
  
This time, Robert is the one to sigh. But he scoots closer to Yusuf, till they’re touching all along the lengths of their body. Yusuf can’t help the shiver that passes through him.  
  
“You’re  _amazing_  in bed, Yusuf. In case me fucking you four times in six hours wasn’t indication enough,” Robert says warmly, and Yusuf blushes, fighting a smile. “You’re sensual and responsive and adventurous.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyebrows travel halfway up to his hairline. “Missionary and doggy-style, Robert. I’m hardly adventurous.”  
  
“Hey, you tried something new with me,” Robert says, smiling, putting his arm around Yusuf’s shoulders. “And there are so many  _more_  things we can try, so many things I want to do with you and  _to_  you.”  
  
“Robert,” Yusuf moans when Robert kisses his shoulder, and up to his ear, doing the same things Yusuf had been doing not five minutes ago. “If not because I . . . somehow sexed you into it,  _why_  are you keeping  _Dude_?”  
  
Robert sighs again, wrapping his arms around Yusuf’s waist. “Well, it’s actually that guy Eames’s fault.”  
  
“ _Eames_?”  
  
Robert laughs a little. “The way he came to bat for you when he thought I was just trying to, you know, get in your pants—the way you guys  _all_  stick up for each other and sing each other’s praises . . . I’ve never seen that kind of camaraderie in any of dad’s companies. Not a single one.” He looks up into Yusuf’s eyes. “It’s obvious that you all have this amazing relationship with each other, and that you care a great deal for each other. And you work well together.  
  
“ _Dude_  has issues, it’s true. Sales and readership have dropped and plateaued in recent years, but I think—no, I  _know_  that can be turned around.” Robert’s voice turns fierce for a moment. “Back when my father started  _Dude_ , it did worse than it is, now. But he worked and fought for it—practically single-handedly turned it around. And it always held a special place in the piece of coal that passed for his heart.”  
  
He reaches up and caresses Yusuf’s cheek gently. “I’ve never had anything like that, you know? Never had any real purpose or place in the world. Then along came  _you_ , and  _Dude_  . . . and suddenly it feels like I belong. Like I’m wanted and needed. I don’t think I’ve ever really felt that way before, and I’d be a fool to give it up.”  
  
Robert falls silent and Yusuf studies him. Those blue-blue eyes are fixed determinedly on Yusuf’s face. “I want to keep you, and I want to keep  _Dude_. I feel like you both need me, and so help me, I need to be needed.”  
  
“So you’re keeping us because we’re fixer-uppers?”  
  
Robert shakes his head. “I’m keeping  _you_  because I think I could  _love you_  . . . if I don’t already.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes widen and his keen sense of disappointment is replaced with pure shock. “Robert, I—“  
  
“Oh, and I’m keeping  _Dude_  because I also love a challenge,” Robert adds almost gleefully. “No one, not even Uncle Peter, thinks anyone short of Jesus Christ could save it. I think all it needs is some tough love and some elbow grease.”  
  
Blinking, Yusuf shakes his head. “That’s—you're—do you mean it?“  
  
Robert’s smile is tender and possessive, and he leans in to kiss Yusuf lightly. “You’re both mine, now, and I don’t give up on what’s mine. I  _keep_  it and I take care of it.”  
  
Yusuf draws in a shaking breath, unable to stop the tear that rolls down his cheek. But Robert brushes it away with his thumb, along with the others that follow.  
  
“I’m scared, Robert,” Yusuf whispers shakily as Robert kisses him again and again, still catching tears. “I’ve never felt this way for anyone, and certainly not so fast. Aren’t you scared, too?”  
  
Robert shushes him. “A little. But  _you_  took a chance on  _me_ , so I’m thinking you’re worth the same risk.” He gives Yusuf an Eskimo kiss. “ _So_  worth it.”  
  
“Robert,” Yusuf starts then chuckles sheepishly. “God, we’re  _so gay_.”  
  
“And proud of it.” Robert pulls Yusuf closer, tugging on his shirt before sliding his hand under it to circle Yusuf’s right nipple. “C’mon. Let’s hose off and I’ll take you to breakfast.”  
  
“You just want to have sex in my shower; admit it.”  
  
Robert’s smile turns into a crafty smirk. “Guilty as charged. But we have to work up an appetite, somehow.”  
  
Yusuf strips his shirt back off and tosses it at his laptop. Just in time for Robert to push him back down to the bed and roll on top of him. Yusuf obligingly wraps his legs around Robert’s waist.  
  
“Think you can get it up a fifth time?” Yusuf taunts, smiling up into flame-bright eyes.  
  
That crafty smirk turns arrogant and Yusuf could swear he feels the beginnings of a hard-on growing against his own rather interested cock. “For you? I  _know_  I can, baby.”  
  
“Mm . . . game-on, then.”  
  
  


**Epilogue: Ten months later. . . .**

  
  
“How do I look?”  
  
Robert’s impeccable, tuxedoed reflection joins Yusuf’s in the full-length mirror. His hands travel _everywhere_  and his eyes are admiring.  
  
“Delicious . . . you look even more beautiful than usual,” Robert says, kissing Yusuf’s cheek, then his neck, then his wool-covered shoulder. Yusuf smiles a little and leans back into the embrace waiting for him.  
  
“But I  _feel_  like a trained chimp. Or maybe a waiter.” Yusuf sighs, tugging hopelessly on his tuxedo. “And my speech is  _horrible_! Why on Earth did he choose  _me_ , Robert?”  
  
“Maybe because you’re his best friend?” Robert’s hands come to rest on Yusuf’s fly. “And your speech is great. It’s funny and moving. I’ve told you that a hundred and fifty times.”  
  
Yusuf sighs again. “I know. But I can’t help feeling as if I’m going to mess up their special day, somehow.”  
  
“See, you’re  _not_ , baby,” Robert promises quietly, resting his chin on Yusuf’s shoulder. His eyes meet Yusuf’s in the mirror. “That’s just the nerves talking.”  
  
“Yeah? Well, they’re talking pretty loud,” Yusuf mutters, and Robert smiles.  
  
“I love you, you know that?”  
  
Yusuf feels his own genuine, besotted smile crossing his face and stopping to stay awhile. Robert’s never been shy about declaring his feelings, but even after six months of doing so, _hearing_  the  _I love you_ s still warms Yusuf to his core.  
  
“I love you, too, Robert Fischer.”  
  
Robert’s eyes go hooded and heated, and he unzips Yusuf’s fly, snaking his hand in and past the opening of Yusuf’s boxers. He takes Yusuf’s cock in hand and strokes it till Yusuf’s hard and breathing that way.  
  
“God, we  _can’t_ , love,” Yusuf says, knowing already that, indeed, they damned well  _will_. And Robert’s smile says much the same. Then he’s slipping around to face Yusuf, getting to his knees.  
  
“It’ll cure those nerves of yours, for one thing, and for another thing—“ Robert holds Yusuf’s gaze while he pulls his cock out and licks it from root to tip. Yusuf moans, running his fingers through Robert’s hair. "For another thing, I like sucking you off while you're all fancied-up."  
  
“We’re in a  _temple_ , Robert. . . .” Yusuf sputters, gently undulating his hips as Robert initiates then increases his suction.  
  
“Mmhmm.”  
  
“A  _temple_!”  
  
“Mm. . . .”  
  
“There’s a special place in hell for men who give and receive blowjobs in holy buildings. You know that, right? And on the morning of their best friends’ wedding, no less.”  
  
Robert pulls off of Yusuf, smiling. “And it’ll be worth it to blow you, then bugger you in Yahweh's house. On the morning of Conor and Arthur’s wedding, no less.”  
  
Yusuf’s eyes widen with fake innocence. “And how did we go from blowjob, to buggery?”  
  
“Don’t we always?” Robert’s blue eyes twinkle with humor and Yusuf thinks about it for a moment, then nods.  
  
“This is true.”  
  
“And will it, or will it not calm your nerves?”  
  
“Well—“  
  
Robert stands up, pulling Yusuf into his arms again. He kisses Yusuf, who can taste himself on Robert’s lips and tongue.  
  
“I love you,” Robert says once more, and once more, Yusuf practically melts.  
  
“I love you, too.”  
  
Robert tilts his head. “Wanna maybe do what Conor and Arthur are doing, sometime soon?”  
  
Yusuf’s brow furrows and he tries to imagine what Eames and Arthur are doing at this—or really _any_ —given moment. “Weren’t we about to?”  
  
Robert chuckles. “Not  _that_ —I mean,  _yes_ , that, but I was thinking that you might also do me the honor—“ one arm drops away from Yusuf and Robert digs in his pockets for a few moments “—of becoming my husband.”  
  
He lets go of Yusuf completely and drops to one knee again, holding up a small open box with a platinum ring set with a ruby inside.  
  
Yusuf’s mouth drops open and while he’s still in a state of gape-mouthed shock, Robert smirks and takes his hand, sliding the ring on. “Perfect fit. Just like us.”  
  
“But—but— _you_? Marry?  _Me_?” Yusuf stammers as Robert stands up, pulling Yusuf’s unresisting arms around his neck then putting his own around Yusuf’s waist. “Why?”  
  
“Because I love you, Yusuf Muhammad, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Robert says earnestly, his piercing eyes staring intently into Yusuf’s.  
  
Yusuf flushes, and looks away. “I want that, too, but . . . are you certain?” Somehow, he finds the courage to meet Robert’s eyes again. They’re still intent and intense.  
  
“I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life, Yusuf,” Robert says, leaning in to kiss Yusuf ardently. Yusuf responds just as ardently, hugging Robert close.  
  
“Then,  _yes_. Yes, I’ll marry you,” he murmurs on Robert’s lips, throwing caution to the wind, as he always has in their relationship.  
  
It’s worth the risk.  
  
Robert clinches Yusuf close. His hands slide down to Yusuf’s ass, pulling his pelvis tight against his own. He’s hard.  
  
Yusuf laughs giddily, but quietly. “How about we skip the blowjob and just go straight to the buggery?”  
  
“Baby, you read my mind,” Robert breathes, stealing one more kiss before manhandling Yusuf so that he’s facing the desk, one of the temple anteroom’s few pieces of furniture. He plasters his body to Yusuf’s, grasps Yusuf’s hips, and walks them forward, hooking his fingers in Yusuf’s waistband.  
  
“You brought lube?” Yusuf asks as he braces his hands on the desk and spreads his legs. Robert snorts, one hand leaving Yusuf’s hip.  
  
“Look who you’re asking.”  
  
Yusuf rolls his eyes. “Yes, I forgot with whom I was dealing,” he says wryly, as he hears the small sound of a cap being flipped open.  
  
Listening with half an ear to the slick  _whist-whist_  sounds of Robert coating his fingers and cock, Yusuf takes a few moments to admire the ring. Shaped not unlike a class ring, it has an inscription:  _Semper et perpetuum amorem._  
  
Robert’s fingers breach him and immediately go to their work of stretching him. Yusuf’s breathing changes, speeds up, and stutters.  
  
“What does  _Semper et perpetuum amorem_  mea—oh!” He gasps as Robert unerringly finds his prostate and applies increasing pressure to it. “Oh,  _Robert_. . . .”  
  
“It means,” Robert kisses into his hair. He stimulates Yusuf’s prostate one more time, till Yusuf’s shaking and moaning and writhing for more. “It means:  _Always and forever, my love._ ”  
  
Yusuf finds himself blinking back tears as Robert lines himself up and enters him with a series of small but implacable thrusts. When he’s seated fully within Yusuf, Robert whispers in Yusuf’s ear: “And I mean just that:  _always and forever, my love._  No one but you.”  
  
“Oh, Robert,” Yusuf sniffs, feeling like a big girl, and completely beyond caring. He reaches behind himself to put one hand on Robert’s own, which has rejoined its mate on Yusuf’s hip. “I love you, too. Always and forever.”  
  
Robert lets out a sigh that’s all relief, and starts to move, slowly and deliberately. “God, that’s good to hear. Say it again.”  
  
“Always. And forever,” Yusuf enunciates, bowing his head like a penitent and spreading his legs as far apart as they’ll go, while still supporting him. “I’m yours.”  
  
“Mine,” Robert agrees, leaving a trail of tiny kisses to Yusuf’s ear lobe, which he worries at gently. “And I’m yours.”  
  
Then there’s nothing but the soft, happy grunts and moans of two people in love and expressing that love in the world’s oldest terms. At least until Yusuf comes, dragging Robert with him and gritting out his name through bitten lips. Robert himself comes with a drawn-out groan, filling Yusuf with wet, copious heat.  
  
For a brief time afterwards, there’s only the huff and puff of heavy breathing, then the wet, softly sucking sounds of lazy kisses.  
  
“You know . . . I’ve been carrying that ring around in my pocket since two months after we met,” Robert says, insinuating a hand between them to ease himself out of Yusuf, who immediately misses the sensation of being full. A warm, tacky mixture of come and lube tickles its way out of him.  
  
“Really?”  
  
“Yep.” Robert busies himself cleaning Yusuf with his silk handkerchief. “I kinda put all my chips on you falling madly in love with me.”  
  
Yusuf snorts fondly. “Well, you won that bet.”  
  
Robert kisses the back of Yusuf’s neck and swipes one last time with the handkerchief before tossing it at the wastebasket. “Did I ever.”  
  
Smiling, Yusuf lets Robert pull up his pants and underwear, and rezips himself. Then he suffers himself to be turned to face Robert, who grins rakishly.  
  
“Still nervous?”  
  
Yusuf shakes his head no.  
  
“See? I’m a miracle worker.”  
  
Rolling his eyes, Yusuf smiles as he’s folded into Robert’s arms. “Yes, and it’ll be another miracle if I can make it down the aisle without everyone knowing what we were doing back here.”  
  
“Yeah, I love to watch you walk all bow-legged after I’ve fucked you,” Robert whispers, stroking the small of Yusuf’s back. “Makes me want to fuck you all. Over. Again.”  
  
“Save it for the coatroom at the reception hall,” Yusuf says, and Robert leans back just enough to look him in the eyes.  
  
“You promise.”  
  
“I promise.”  
  
Robert chuckles and kisses him. “At some point, we’re supposed to slow down, right? To stop acting like a couple of horny teenagers, fucking whenever we get the chance, right?”  
  
“God, I hope  _not_ ,” Yusuf says sincerely. “I find it rather gratifying that being around you makes me raise wood on a dime.”  
  
“Ditto.”  
  
Yusuf returns that rakish grin and takes Robert’s hand. “C’mon, stud. We have wedding duties to attend to. Eames is probably freaking the fuck out, right about now. We’d best calm him down before he runs out of the temple screaming.”  
  
“Okay . . . but we’re not calming him down the way I just calmed  _you_  down.” Robert scowls, and Yusuf laughs and turns toward the door, tugging on Robert’s hand.  
  
“Actually. . . .” he begins with mock thoughtfulness. Robert pulls Yusuf back into his arms and kisses him hard.  
  
“ _Mine_ ,” he growls, only half-jokingly. "Remember?"  
  
“Yours,” Yusuf agrees, meaning it with every fiber of his being. “ _Semper et perpetuum amorem_.”  
  
“Good.” Robert squeezes Yusuf’s hand and leads him to the door. He opens it and they’re both startled by a strikingly dapper, but harried-looking Eames, who barges in without noticing their surprise.  
  
He’s carrying a flask and his boutonnière, and he makes his way to the room’s lone chair, flopping into it with a groan. He goes to take a swig from the boutonnière, swears, and tries again, this time with the flask.  
  
“So, Arthur’s bubbe and yetta are peppering me with questions about when we’re going to have children. Whether we’re going to adopt, or have a surrogate mother—whether we’ll raise the little tykes Jewish—“ Eames takes another swig, runs his hand over his yarmulke, and looks even more harried. Then he looks at Robert and Yusuf as if really  _seeing_  them. His eyes tick from their linked hands to their flushed faces and he rolls his eyes. “Bloody hell, at my  _wedding_? In Arthur’s family’s  _temple_?”  
  
Yusuf, at least, has the grace to look contrite. “Sorry, Eames, but—“ he holds out his hand and smiles so big, it feels like it stretches from ear to ear. “Robert and I just got engaged!”  
  
Eames blinks. Then smiles, himself. “Congrats, Yusuf. Robert.” He gets up and holds out his hand to Robert for shaking. Robert takes it without hesitation, almost smiling himself. “About time you made our boy an honest man.”  
  
“I could say the same for you and Arthur, Conor.”  
  
“He  _could_ , but he won’t,” Yusuf interrupts to say, letting Eames hug him. He hugs back just as hard. “After all, we have a wedding to pull off.”  
  
“Don't remind me,” Eames looks momentarily harried again, but lets Yusuf and Robert, each with a hand on his back, to lead him to the door. Robert takes the flask and Yusuf the boutonnière. “Is it normal to be so nervous? I mean, I want this more than anything, but—I’m so bloody  _anxious_! What if Arthur changes his mind? What if someone objects? What if—?”  
  
“You’ll both be fine. I  _decree_  it as your best man,” Yusuf says firmly, pinning the boutonnière to the lapel of Eames’s white tuxedo jacket and kissing Eames on the cheek. Robert, meanwhile, has slipped the flask into his right breast pocket. “Now, let’s get you married before you have a nervous breakdown. Then you and Arthur can get started on those little Eames-Krakauers. Okay?”  
  
“Ha-bloody-ha. I hope you’ll remember that lovely sense of humor when it’s  _your_  turn to walk down the aisle,” Eames mutters, glaring daggers at them both. “Let’s see how certain  _you two_ are when it’s your turn.”  
  
Yusuf’s and Robert’s gazes meet behind Eames's back.  
  
 _Always_ , Robert mouths, and Yusuf blows him a kiss.  
  
 _Forever_ , he returns.  
  
And together—always together—they lead a still-muttering Eames out to his destiny.  
  



End file.
